In a word
by mtfrosty
Summary: Scattered snippets based on one-word prompts. Any character, any time, any place, any moment. Shoot me a word and a name and I'll give you my take on it. Most recent updates: Quinlan Vos, Obi-wan.
1. Bullet (Obi-wan)

It is his forty-second day on Tatooine. The suns are high in the sky, and by his humble estimation it is about seven hundred and sixty-eight degrees outside. Sitting in the shade provides a brief escape from the sweltering heat, but only until he sees the party of four moving slowly towards his hovel. With a sigh that quickly transforms into a stifled groan, Ben rises to his feet and steps into the hellish sun, flipping his hood up to keep the rays from burning his face.

"You the wizard?" the man at the front asks when he is ten paces away.

Wizard. Magic man. Healer. Devil. Hermit. He has yet to be called _Jedi_ , so he tries not to take offense at any of the names the locals have labeled him with. "So they say," he carefully replies. "What's wrong with him?" He flicks his chin at the boy lying on the stretcher propped between the four of them. An unruly mop of dusty brown hair is all that he can see of the child, but the outline of his tiny frame beneath the thin blanket gives his relative age away.

The spokesman casts a glance at the boy and then turns back to Ben, eyeing him with a look that is both wary and hopeful. "They tell us you might be able to help him."

"That depends on what's wrong," Ben says, growing impatient.

Not a minute later, he is staring at a mangled leg that he _knows_ has to be amputated. There is too much blood, there is too much of it _missing_ , and the boy is pale to the point of translucent, and with practiced calm Ben asks, "What happened?"

"He took a slug to the leg. Tusken Raiders."

Sweet _Force_. Had Clone Troopers been equipped with slugthrowers, had droids been armed with slugs for ammunition… well. Suddenly blasters seem quite civilized indeed. "A slug…" he mutters.

"That's what I said."

 _Did I survive the Clone War and the Purge just to be prepared for this?_ Ben blinks and then moves. He lifts the boy from the makeshift stretcher and carries him inside. No one else is allowed to enter. When they leave, the boy is pale, shaking, sweating profusely, and missing his leg.

But he will live. Ben and his lightsaber made sure of that. He watches them leave and then sits back down in the shade. Upon reflection, he decides that if he has to, he would do it again. Amputate a limb to save a life.

Especially that of a child.

It's a far cry from removing three limbs to win a duel.


	2. Lesson (Obi-wan)

Everything is green. He has never seen so much green in his life. In the distance, a thickly vined forest stands silently, its towering trees clothed in soft mosses and rooted in damp earth. Wide open fields lay between the compound and the forest, and they are green too. There are flowers popping up sporadically, little clumps of purples and blues and pinks dotted across the grassy plains. Rows upon rows of crops grow on the other side of the large building. It is here that he finds himself early in the morning.

The sun is just beginning to rise, colors are dancing across the clear sky, and clouds are catching fire as he watches. Not even a week has gone by since he arrived and he swears to himself that he will never, _never_ take such a sight for granted ever again.

Coruscant never had anything like _this_.

"Pay attention, young man."

 _Young man._ Not _padawan._ _Never_ padawan. Something inside of him tightens, but he banishes the feeling as soon as he transfers his gaze from the golden sky to the stern gaze of his teacher. Mister Mathudun's white eyes stare back at him, strangely devoid of any other color. Arkanians are… different. He is not sure how else to describe them.

"Sorry, master," he says reflexively and then winces in both embarrassment and shame. There are no _masters_ here. Only teachers.

Snow-white brows beetle together and white eyes blink. Then the man is gesturing to a tiny sproutling below them. It looks half-dead already, having already begun to brown and sport a few shriveled leaves. "Let me show you something, Obi-wan," he says. Somehow, this stern man who is usually so cold and aloof sounds gentle. "Watch closely," he murmurs. Then he is lowering a four-fingered hand to lightly grasp one of the wrinkly leaves.

To Obi-wan's astonishment and delight, the leaf begins to straighten out and slowly turn green. The rest of the tiny shoot loses its brown and turns slightly into the rising sun. When Akan Mathudun withdraws his hand, the plant is thicker, greener, a few millimeters taller and looks as though it will survive at least another century. "You are not here to learn how to farm, Kenobi," he says, drawing the teenager in with his milky eyes and a gentle smile.

"I… I'm not?" Obi-wan is confused. He knows that the Order holds the AgriCorps up as an honorable pursuit worthy of respect, but among the Temple's initiates vying for apprenticeships, it is seen as the work of dropouts. Flunkies. Those not worthy to be Jedi, but only worthy to be farmers.

He is not sure that he even deserves to be a farmer, considering he left many disappointed masters and a dead thirteen-year-old boy back at the Temple.

"No." The Arkanian's deep, cultured voice captures his attention once again. "The AgriCorps exists to assist those in need. We grow crops, yes, but not for the purpose of turning a profit. This," and here he gestures at their surroundings. "This is to give others a chance at life."

To give life. No. Obi-wan doesn't think he can do this. Not after he –

"Obi-wan."

Not after –

"Look at me please."

He does.

"You are not a killer," his new teacher says. Obi-wan imagines that if the man had pupils they would be a vivid green. The color of grass. The color that he'd just stoked back into a dying plant. The color of life. "You are _not_ a killer."

The young Jedi – no, _farmer_ – feels something wet on his face. Only later does he realize that he had been crying. "But I killed him," he whispers.

Mister Mathudun laughs softly. It is an oddly comforting sound. "And now look at you: so bogged down in grief and guilt and consumed with self-disgust that you've forgotten who you are. Killers don't feel guilt or disgust towards their actions, young one, but you _do_." He pauses to put on some dark glasses and Obi-wan remembers reading somewhere that an Arkanian's eyes are sensitive to the light of younger, stronger suns. "You were raised a Jedi, Obi-wan, as was I. I was not apprenticed because I was not strong enough in the Force. They sent me here because I wanted to be here. I knew that I could serve others in this capacity and I knew that I could do it well. Do you know why they sent you?"

Obi-wan shudders a little under the intense scrutiny and looks away. "Because I failed," he mumbles.

"No."

He looks back.

"You made a mistake. I big one, but one that others have made as well. And in the process you lost your way. They sent you here to remind you what you are capable of and to give you the opportunity to try again." His teacher doesn't give him another chance to speak, but instead gestures to another dry and fading plant. "What is the technique that I used on the other plant?"

He blinks at the change of topic. "I… I'm not sure. It looked similar to something used in combat, but here you're using it to farm…"

"To save a life, Obi-wan. Yes, many Jedi who can use this power use it to ensnare an enemy in a tree's vines or use other plants as weapons of a sort." The Arkanian sighs. "They use it to defeat an enemy and sometimes to kill them. Here we use it for a different purpose. It is called _Consitor Sato_ , and I am going to teach it to you."

Obi-wan dares to smile a little. "Do you… do you think I would be good at it?"

Though his teacher doesn't smile back there is a warmth to his voice that hadn't been there before. "I think you have the potential to be great at it," he murmurs in return. Then he turns his attention to the small sapling and kneels down in the dirt. "Now. Watch again…"

When green starts to bleed into brown and the plant begins to straighten, Obi-wan wipes his face and lowers himself to kneel beside his teacher. This time, a flower the color of brilliant sunlight begins to bloom under Mr. Mathudun's gentle care, and the former initiate starts to think that he would like to be able to do something like this. To create beauty from sickness.

To give life instead of take it.


	3. Resurface (Dooku)

When his boy had left, Yoda had at least expected to hear his name pop up occasionally, considering the title that he had reattached to it. But there hadn't been anything. Not a whisper. So he had assumed that his old apprentice had settled for a quiet life devoid of complication.

He should have known better. Yan Dooku had always had a flair for the dramatic.

The Count steps onto the stage with all of the sophisticated gravitas that he had been known for as a Jedi. He sports the same dark colors he had been fond of then, only now he wears a flowing cape in place of dark robes. When Yan speaks, there is a distinct _edge_ to his words, a cutting precision that dares anyone listening to question his orders, his sentiment, his loyalites.

Yoda confronts him on these grounds first, but he gets nowhere.

"Much to learn, you still have." This spoken after he absorbs the white-hot energy that explodes from his boy's fingertips. No, Yan has nothing to learn in that regard (Yan is possibly the most learned being in the Force after Yoda himself). He speaks these words in a desperate attempt to inspire doubt, but the Count doubts nothing. Not anymore (he only ever doubted the Order).

Yan had been a Jedi once, but no more.

Where there had been light, there is now darkness.

Where there had been warmth, there is now cool indifference.

Where Yan's eyes had been a dark, intelligent brown, they are now…

Yoda blinks.

Yan's eyes are still dark and still brown and they still glint with subdued intelligence that few can match, but there is not even a hint of yellow. Those eyes are not the sick, jaundiced eyes of a Sith who has fully embraced the dark side.

The cave is bathed in green and red as they cross blades: one Jedi and one… Count. Just as Yan had been something of a "dark" Jedi, Yoda now sees a "not-quite-dark" Sith. His boy is somewhere in between the two, and he decides there is hope to be had in that.


	4. Pain (Obi-wan)

Padawan Lena Baashra stares at the medical file for a long moment before she picks it up. Being apprenticed to a Jedi Healer, with high hopes of becoming a Healer herself, she has become _very_ familiar with the medical histories of many of the Order's frontline warriors. Too familiar, in her opinion, but wars tend to not play favorites and this one is no different. Every Jedi who fights in any sort of skirmish or battle is bound to come away with at least minor injuries, and any padawan apprenticed to a Healer is going to be familiar with said injuries no matter how old they are.

Lena stares at the file and hopes that when she blinks it will shrink in size or, better yet, disappear entirely. The war has been raging for the better part of a year and some unfortunate knights and masters have accumulated a variety of scars, but she has yet to come across another file as thick and heavy as this one. The name on the front of it surprises her, but when she thinks about it, she decides that it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. _Chalk it up to youthful innocence_ , she thinks, but then quickly reconsiders. If she is anything at all, it is not innocent or ignorant. Lena has seen too much, fixed too much, failed too much to be considered innocent. _So much for hero worship_ , she amends. There is still a bit of awe towards the man this file represents, but she finds herself replacing most of it with pity.

Lena stares at the file, flips it open, scans page one, and closes it. All of their medical files list past injuries, allergies, and other relevant information at the front for easy access for emergencies. That way they don't have to do too much digging before a surgery or emergency treatment. It is supposed to be a brief report, easy to read, easy to memorize… this one isn't.

Lena stares at the file until the patient arrives. Today he is just getting vaccinations, and so there is no need to memorize that not-so-brief list. Her master is currently treating a long-term patient in another wing, so she is left to take care of this one by herself. Normally she doesn't get so nervous. She's done hundreds of these before with hundreds of different Jedi ranging from younglings to… well… to Council members. He is not the first of his rank to come through her doors.

But this _is_ the first time she has met Obi-wan Kenobi face to face, and it is doing crazy things to her stomach. A soft rap on the wall to the side of the door signals his arrival and she beckons him in with a crisp wave and a friendly smile. _That_ part she is very proficient in, thank you very much. "Good afternoon, master," she greets him.

Gray-blue eyes catch hers and don't leave. When he smiles back, she notices the sun lines feathering out from those eyes and the gray at his temples. Strange. The file lists him at only thirty-six. "Hello there," he returns. His voice carries a practiced gentleness beneath a cultured accent that makes her instantly relax.

Lena motions for him to take a seat on the bed and begins to prep the dosages. Master Kenobi needs three vaccines to counteract some fairly lethal diseases. She wonders where he is off to, but she doesn't ask. Her mind wanders to the extensive list hiding behind the thin file folder, and she wonders where he _has been_.

But she doesn't ask.

"Hold out your arm, please," she tells him. "We'll try to make this quick. My... um… my master told me you don't do well with needles."

They make eye contact again and he snorts. "Yes. Well. I may not _like_ needles, but I assure you I will do just fine, thank you." There is a thinly veiled tinge of annoyance in this statement, but she can tell that it is not directed at her since he gives her a wink. "I imagine three brief shots are preferable to the alternative."

She smiles. "Definitely."

Before either of them can say more, his gaze drifts towards the stuffed folder lying at the far end of the bed he is sitting on. Lena watches, curious, as his eyelids flutter closed for half a second and his shoulders sag ever-so-slightly. The sigh that follows lasts a bit longer. When his eyes open again, they stare at the blank wall before lowering to rest on her hand that is gently gripping his arm. "Do they let you read those?" he asks, almost too quietly for her to hear.

Lena stares at the folder for a moment, wishing that she could disappear. When she looks at the Jedi sitting on her bed, in her room, in her domain and she begins to notice far more than just sun-lines and gray hairs, she decides that there is nowhere else that she should be. "Yes. They do." Her answer is just as quiet, but far more sure. This surprises her, that he sounds so… vulnerable. Heroes of his stature aren't supposed to sound that way.

Another sigh follows, and he still doesn't meet her gaze. "I suppose I should apologize then. I can't imagine that it's very light reading…"

"Most of them aren't," she says with a shrug and a smile. He looks at her in time to catch the smile at least. "I only read the front page anyway." As she talks, she expertly finds the vein she needs and slips the needle into it.

He flinches.

"I've read the front page," he returns. "It's enough."

Lena removes the needle when she's done, not missing the way his fingers tremble. "I think you should lie down, master," she murmurs. When he doesn't immediately obey, she looks him directly in his haunted eyes and gestures pointedly. "Please."

The smallest of smiles makes his entire countenance lighten considerably. "Yes, ma'am," he mutters before shifting so that he's lying along the full length of the bed. "It's not adrenaline."

She blinks, pausing as she reaches for the second vaccine. "Oh?"

"I won't feint," he clarifies with a short laugh (it's humorless). "I just get flashbacks sometimes, but I'll try and hold them at bay. Wouldn't want the whole battalion of healers flocking towards my room. Now _that_ would get my adrenaline pumping…" The look on his face is now a cross between exasperation and wry (morbid) humor.

Lena can't help but laugh. "I'd rather not have that either. I told my master I could handle it by myself and it would be kind of embarrassing if –"

Blue-gray eyes catch hers again and stop her mid-sentence. "You're doing a marvelous job, young one," he assures her.

Lena slips the second needle in. His flinch is more subdued this time and his eyes are still on hers.

"I mean that." That said, he lays his head back and closes his eyes. "Now if you don't mind, I think I'll lie here for a few moments after you're finished and get my head on straight before I leave."

Lena eyes him carefully. His fingers are still trembling slightly, but for the most part he seems under control. Still… "Maybe I should go get my master," she starts.

Master Kenobi flicks one eye open and raises one imperious brow. It is enough to derail her suggestion before he even speaks a word. "That won't be necessary," he intones. He seems to notice her little half-step back and slips an easy smile on his face. "I'll be fine, I promise."

Before she can stop herself, she rolls her eyes. "I've heard that plenty of times before, master. I won't be surprised if you break that promise." She turns and reaches for the third and final needle.

"Perhaps you have, but I'm fairly certain you've never heard it from me." When she turns back and raises a brow of her own, the blasted man merely holds up his arm. "I don't make that promise often, but you've already been forced to read the front page of my past. I won't force you to experience it as well."

Lena turns and stares at the file and then she turns and stares at the man who bears its marks. She wonders where his strength comes from, because as far as she can tell he's a rather small-boned man with the physique to match.

Haunted eyes stare back and in them she sees what she's looking for. Somehow, beneath the scars, there is _belief_ in there. Dogged determination. Hope.

When she gives him the third vaccination, he doesn't flinch at all. "Thank you, padawan…"

"Baashra," she answers. "Lena Baashra."

He gifts her with another small smile and then closes his eyes. "Thank you," he repeats.

Lena nods, fills out the brief paperwork and moves to her next patient one room over. It is another twenty minutes before she sees him leave through the open door.


	5. Kowtow (Obi-wan)

_I am going to die here._

He has thought this many, _many_ times in the past, but never with so much certainty as he does now. Too many times has he thwarted death that the words seem like mere precedent at this point, and at first he smiles at his own morbid sense of humor ( _someone_ has to, because Anakin is no longer here to do it).

But the always present stab of fear that typically follows is absent. When he feels an otherworldly sense of calm flood through him instead, his smile grows a little softer and his heartbeat slows a fraction. The lightsaber hidden beneath his sand-worn robes _hums_ with excitement, its frosty crystal itching to generate the energy he will need to face this latest threat.

 _I am going to die here_.

It is an odd sensation, to be sure. Knowing that after almost six decades of struggling, fighting, sweating, losing, hoping, and pleading he now only has perhaps a few hours left of that precious thing called _life_. What to do with only moments to spare?

Disable a tractor beam of course. Who wouldn't in such circumstances? It is an odd sort of blessing to be alone in his last minutes, tinkering with a weapon of war in the middle of an enemy's camp. There is a sense of rightness about the whole situation that sets him at ease (he has always felt at ease in these sorts of places, dealing out destruction to those who dare to question the Light and thwarting those whose aim is the annihilation of the innocent and the good). For half a second, he wonders if a part of him has always been tinged with madness… or is it sanity that allows him to thrive in these sorts of situations?

 _I am going to die here. Finally._

Finally, the Force is allowing him this.

Even at his ripened age, it is child's play to go unnoticed by the Imperials monitoring the corridors. The Force is a faithful ally, as always, and he relishes in the way that it's wrapping itself around him today. It is unusually warm in the hard, artificial hallways, and he knows that whatever is in store for him, however this is about to play out, the Light will win.

Then every last one of the nine Corellian hells breaks loose and a wave of sheer _malice_ washes over him, threatening to suffocate the warmth right out of his weary, exhausted bones. _I am going to die here, at HIS hand? No, no, no, no, NO!_ He can't. He _won't_. Vader steps into the path before him and he freezes.

Anakin.

Everything goes blank. There are no words for this. Nothing.

Then there is everything. Literally. The entirety of his past bears down on his shoulders and he physically sags under its weight. They are both speaking words, but it sounds like formality to his ears, choreographed discussion for the sake of pretense and nothing more. Things are so much more complicated than that.

 _Give him to me._

Despite himself, despite years of training, years of surrendering his life and body to a Code that he knows is right, he bristles. _No. I did before and look at what he is now._

Their weapons follow on the heels of their words and his lightsaber is spitting snow-blue fire at the monster who used to be his brother. _Is_ his brother. Everything is so very wrong now. _I don't want to die here._

His bones creak and grate against each other as he struggles to keep up. This is a mockery of their former duels, a true laugher, and he bristles again at the realization that everything he has dedicated his life to is culminating in this pathetic moment.

 _He is not yours to fix, young one._

Bitterness sears a burning line through his soul. _But I'm the one that broke him!_ Visions of liquid fire dance into his head even as their blades continue to clash. He can feel wave upon wave of hatred roll over him and he trembles under their added weight, feels his arms begin to weaken. He smells sulfur and subconsciously twitches away from molten sparks that aren't even there.

Beneath that blackened skull of a mask, he can feel Vader's laughter. _Anakin's_ laughter.

" _You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you!"_

 _I still do._

Their blades lock in a temporary bind and he blinks. Warmth steals into his aching joints, soothing the open wounds that memories have left on his mind. Everything suddenly _makes sense_.

 _Give him to me, Obi-wan._

"Ben?"

His name drifts towards them on a current of the Force (he has no other explanation for how he can hear the softly spoken inquiry). Glancing to his left, he sees Luke with a horrified expression on his young face.

All he can do is smile.

Turning his attention to his brother once more, his smile grows a little wider (and a touch more wry). _I love this man. I really do._ But his had been a leeching love, the sort that that tore a piece of himself apart with every mistake that Anakin ever made. A beast that knotted up his insides and twisted his memories so that Anakin's mistakes became his own and his life was turned into a desperate effort to reconcile himself somehow.

Love born from paying penance. Love out of a desire to fix.

 _He was never mine._ He blinks again, still smiling. Two blades sizzle and crackle against each other in front of him. One is blood red, and his is almost white. Almost. As he stares, the bit of blue that is left seems to finally lighten even more.

The crystal between his palms is singing, but the song is off-kilter (it has been singing this off-beat song ever since Naboo), and he finally understands why.

 _He's yours._

For the first time, Obi-wan Kenobi feels truly free. There is a fraction of a second, right before he makes the last move he will ever make with the weapon in his hands, where he appreciates the irony of freedom found in total surrender.

He flicks his eyes from their crossed blades to where Anakin's eyes are hiding behind two fathomless black holes. Something in the Force _shifts_ and falls into place. Old Ben allows himself a silent laugh of joy and slowly pulls his blade away. Closing his eyes, he relishes in the single, piercing note that his saber's crystal releases. It sounds and feels _right._

 _Do with him as you wish._

His lightsaber is ramrod straight, poised in front of him, echoing the tragic song of Mustafar in a much more pleasing note of pure _light_. Back then he had been bracing for the destruction of everything he'd worked towards, everything he loved, and everything that made up reality as he had known it.

Now he gives it up.

 _He is yours, and so am I. Finally._

Anakin swings and doesn't miss. It is a swift and brutal sai cha, or at least it is supposed to be. Ben feels only the slightest of stings, and then he is no more. An anguished scream sounds as his robes and weapon hit the floor and blaster fire rips through the air. Chaos resumes, but for a moment, everything had been _right._


	6. Pull (Ahsoka)

The Light is different out here among those who can't feel it. Cleaner, perhaps, and maybe even a tad bit stronger. She wagers it has to do with not being used as much, but she knows that it must be more than just disuse that causes the differences. For as often as she's called upon it before (fighting in a war constituted constant immersion), Ahsoka has never found it quite this _easy._

The Sixth Brother's double-bladed dervish of a weapon explodes in a burst of sparks and sheer _light_. He takes the full brunt of it and when she picks herself up from where she's been thrown, she can tell that he didn't survive. His death, no matter the darkness that had been a part of him, deserves a moment of sorrow and she grants it. It had never been easy, taking a life. It still isn't, especially when she hadn't intended to.

Her hands are shaking, but she valiantly ignores them as she fixes her attention on a small red crystal lying not two standard feet to her right. If not for the tremors that its shrieks are sending through the Force, she probably wouldn't have even noticed it. The crystal's twin is next to the dead man, still imbedded in what's left of the weapon's hilt.

Two bleeding kybers, screaming their tortured song for all to hear (she wagers even some _non_ -sensitives might be able to hear their racket).

It is with no small amount of hesitancy that she stutter-steps over to the closest one and reaches a trembling hand towards it (had she still been a Jedi, she would have nothing to do with them). The edges of its signature send a light tingle through her fingers, but with a burst of determination she grabs it and stands straight.

It _stings._ Ahsoka almost drops it, but through sheer force of will closes her hand around it instead and turns towards the other one. The jagged pieces of hilt shudder and crack and then the crystal is flying towards her. This one _thuds_ into her palm and this time she _does_ drop it.

It is far heavier than the one she currently holds. The first one is screaming its rage, but this other one… it's been bled dry for quite some time. The crimson hues swirling within it are all but permanent, anchored down by _years_ of forced malice and wicked hatred.

Her first thought is, _Mortis._

Her second thought follows closely. _Son._

(This weighted darkness, this black crimson, slimy, _evil_ is exactly what the Son felt like. She remembers how easily she had succumbed last time…)

Today she is different. _Very_ different.

The first crystal spits and stings and lashes against her closed fist, but she merely slips it into a slim pocket at her hip. Her eyes are fixed only on the other one. The stronger one.

The _sicker_ one.

Unexpectedly (or expectedly), the one on the ground rumbles out a deep, thunderous, gravelly cackle. Or as much of a cackle as a darkness-infused kyber can give. She only flinches once before getting down on one knee and stretching out an open hand. "You lose," she murmurs, smiling softly (it's an echo of a snarkier smile from years ago, one tinged with wry wit and a sorrow not easily explained).

The rumble grows louder and her smile grows wider. For a moment, all is still and quiet. Then everything _explodes._

Thin tendrils of black shadow hurtle towards her and attempt to latch onto her signature. They burn where they hit, but they find no purchase because she has always been a quick learner, and she swore the minute she left Mortis that the dark would never, _ever_ own her again. The Force that she has grounded herself in is far lighter and far _stronger_ than it's ever been and it surrounds her in a frictionless cocoon.

The tremble in her hands ceases. Ahsoka laughs (out of amazement, out of sheer, overwhelming _awe_ at the fact that she is no longer afraid).

Then she _pulls_.

When they eventually ask where she attained two crystals able to power her lightsabers, she tells them the truth: "They're from an Inquisitor's weapon."

When they ask her why they're not red, her answer is no less simple, but most miss the gravity behind her words (they don't miss the glint in her eye or the _edge_ in her voice): "I pulled the darkness out."

They wonder at this, especially those who know a little of the Jedi and their ways. Most give her dubious looks, because there is no recorded instance of _anyone_ changing a kyber crystal from red to clear. Or white. Or whatever color that is. (And how would a Jedi _reject_ be able to manage the feat?)

Every now and then, someone eyes her with newfound respect.

She doesn't care either way. It is what it is. Her weapons are white, and that _means_ something. Very few are ever white. She knows this and they know this as well.

Eventually, she meets Anakin again. He is tall, dark, cold, hard, and menacing. Most of all, he is _heavy._ Weighted down by a darkness that speaks in thunderous rumblings and gravelly cackles. Ahsoka faces him with no fear.

Only pity and a hint of sorrow laced with hope.

The Light she knows is different than what she knew as a Jedi. Lighter. Brighter. _Stronger._ She will not fall again. The ignition of her two white-hot blades results in nothing but a fathomless black glare (but she did feel _something_ flicker in his signature).

A bleeding, shrieking, sick crimson blade meets her weapons in a jarring clash, but she has eyes only for her old friend. She fights like she's never fought before (if she wins this, then maybe she can pull his darkness out).

The two frosty kybers sing again and again, but Vader's screams of rage don't fade. If anything, they begin to grow stronger.


	7. Gold (Yoda)

_AN: some of these will be AU situations... like this one. ;) (I may write another one-shot for this prompt, cuz I had a few ideas floating around in my head)_

* * *

Yoda remembers being young once. Though it was a long – _very_ long – time ago, he can still remember being innocent, carefree, impossibly full of joy, and foolishly naïve. He knows that his fellow Jedi respect his wisdom and heed the experienced advice that his years imply, but he also knows that they think him something of a relic, at times. That centuries of living have slowly dissolved his means to understand, to empathize with those far, _far_ younger than him.

Most of them, at least those who don't know him well, do not even entertain the idea that behind the wisdom in his words and the mysterious twinkle in his eyes hides a soul, hides a _being_ that understands more than they ever will and yet is understood by _no one._

Yes. He remembers being young once. And his memory is oh so vivid, rife with tantalizing colors and impossible possibilities born from the young mind of one who has just discovered that he can touch the Force for the very first time. Yoda remembers the _chill_ that had settled into his tiny frame then, and he also remembers the sudden jolt of _warmth_ that had followed. He remembers words spoken by a being nobody else remembers.

" _What color do you see, young one?"_

Yoda had seen many colors and remembers being completely baffled by the question. Until he had looked closer and noticed a distinct thread of soft color winding its way through the entire fabric of the new reality that he had been introduced to. _"White?"_

He remembers the sound of a warm chuckle. _"Gold, Yoda. Like the stars, like a sun newly born. Treasure that pirates on distant worlds seek and never find. Isn't it beautiful?"_

It still is. He remembers being young and driven by that new and beautiful purpose: to seek out and learn all that he could about this golden, mysterious, _real_ Force that he could touch and bend and call and use.

Yoda remembers being a century older and realizing that using it was wrong on all accounts and that a true wielder of the Force doesn't seek to wield it at all.

He remembers living only a few decades more and encountering a tainted version of the Force that he had gotten to know so well. Yoda remembers the distinct _pull_ of it. The temptation. The sheer, rumbling, thrumming _power_ that had swelled and vibrated around him.

Around him, but never through him.

Yoda's purpose had transitioned to something beyond learning after that: resist the sickness. For _years_ after that initial encounter, he had hunted and destroyed and resisted.

Then he arrived at the newly constructed Temple and began to teach. Yoda remembers finding joy in passing on what he had learned. He taught hundreds of Jedi. Thousands of days he awoke before the sun just so that he could watch it rise and compare its aging hues with the eternally young white-gold hues of the Force. Thousands of days were spent attempting to show other younger beings, fellow Force-touchers, the nature of the Force. The brilliance that resided there. The power that no one could hope to understand or, for that matter, _wield._ The hope, the gentleness…

The Light.

Yoda remembers when his purpose had simply been to teach. To be an example and an arrow directing others to the source of life and endurance. He remembers it as if it were only yesterday, because it _had_ been only yesterday.

Now, his purpose has changed once more and morphed into something finer, more specific, and distinctly dangerous (though he has faced the full gamut of _dangerous_ , and this is hardly the worst of it). A Sith Lord stands in front of him, half-mad and cackling, with his hands splayed out as if the entirety of this beautiful universe has suddenly fallen right into his lap.

Groaning, Yoda twitches one pointed ear and pushes himself up, mentally wincing at the grating of his old bones. Far be it from him to actually imply to the Sith that things are going to be _easy._ He has lived – and survived – for too many years to allow things to fall apart _easily_. If the situation weren't so grave, he might have chuckled. Slowly, with a patience learned from eons spent in the company of darkness (and a few decades longer spent in the company of starlit, golden _light_ ), Yoda shifts his feet and sets himself (only a few breaths are necessary for him to clear his mind, slow his heartbeat, and focus on the moment). The Sith stops smirking and with a flash is right in front of the exit.

But Yoda is there too, having leapt nimbly to the opening and placed himself squarely between Sidious and his escape (he wants to laugh, he wants to _mock_ the fool openly for not realizing that at its core, darkness always _runs_ ). It only takes a blink of a thought for him to call his weapon into his clawed hand. Glaring into sick, yellow eyes, he ignites it as he speaks. "If so powerful, you are… why leave?"

The disfigured, lightning-shorn man only gurgles out a few words about his new apprentice becoming more powerful than the both of them – a hopeless delusion, for the power that darkness wields is a mere facsimile of the raw, unadulterated, unsickened _warmth_ that holds the worlds together – and Yoda counters with an accusation of misplaced faith even though he knows it will get him nowhere with the Sith.

Then a red beam, sharpened to a point by a darkened crystal, is reaching towards him. A blink, and they have already exchanged blows and are locked in a sizzling, crackling bind. Yoda glares across the two weapons into sickly golden eyes streaked with madness and rage. It is a terrifying combination and, despite himself (despite convincing himself that he has seen worse), the old Jedi's stomach does a quick little flip.

The Sith's crooked grimace of concentration instantly transforms into a smear of a smile, nasty and slimy and far too _confident_ for Yoda's tastes. "Your move, _Jeedaii_ ," he growls.

Green eyes widen in realization, in stunned fear. It has been _centuries_ since he's heard the word 'Jedi' spoken with that specific inflection on it. The truth settles itself into Yoda's mind with blunt force clarity and nearly breaks his hold on the Sith's weapon. Reaching out with the Force, it takes him only half a second to pinpoint a dark, brown-gold undercurrent writhing its way through Sidious' body and weapon, an unwilling yet very powerful tool at his command.

A sharp push on their locked blades snaps his eyes back to those of the Sith. "Very dark, you are," he murmurs, momentary fear fading to be replaced by cold, _ancient_ anger. Something that every living Jedi would frown upon after getting over their initial surprise, for not one of them _understands._ Not all anger leads to hate, and not all hatred leads to suffering. He learned long ago that there are some things that deserve to be hated, because if they are not hated, then they will eventually be loved and cherished and _possessed._ Staring into those darkness-infused eyes, Yoda knows for a fact that Sidious never learned to hate the right things. " _Very_ dark," he repeats, tightening his grip on his weapon.

"You were defeated months ago, _fool,_ " the Sith spits through his broken grin.

There is a flash of very brief movement, so brief that to call it a 'flash' might be a touch exaggerated, and Yoda calls the Sith's disengaged lightsaber into his other hand. Filaments of white-gold warmth steal into his old joints and lend him strength even as his purpose shifts yet again into something even finer than before. It feels _right_ , as if every decade lived up to this point has led him precisely _here._ He has never lent much credence to fate, and now the very idea seems preposterous, because right now he is filled with more purpose than he's ever had before.

Perhaps if he ends it now, then young Skywalker can learn to hate the darkness and young Kenobi can learn to love his brother properly. Yoda regrets that he never really took the time to learn to love either of them. Guide, yes. Teach, yes. Protect, yes. Respect, yes. Love? Even ancient sages fall prey to changed Codes and modern ways of thinking. He remembers when things had been… different.

 _A shame, it is._

Yoda feels the Sith begin to draw on the darkness, building up a well of sheer power that spits and howls and cackles with more depth and madness than this shriveled man is capable of. " _FOOL!"_

The word blasts over him, blowing him back a few yards, and it is only through disciplined calm that Yoda silently asks the Force to anchor him to the floor. _Just once more,_ he pleads. His feet stop sliding, stuck in place by an invisible hold, and he feels (and begins to _see_ ) soft tendrils of light surround him, blanketing him and shielding him from the poisonous fumes of blackness the Sith is thrusting towards him.

"PITIFUL WRETCH!" Jaundiced eyes flash with something eerily sinister, causing Yoda to cringe and brace himself. Sidious is shaking, _thrumming,_ about to explode. Two gnarled hands come up, bent unnaturally and pointed at him in a grim promise of death set aside and pain prolonged. Yoda remembers what dangerous is (he has faced the full gamut), but he isn't sure where this falls in comparison.

Nevertheless, fear briefly sparks within him, but that's it. Sidious doesn't seem to realize who, exactly, he is facing. He doesn't seem to realize what, exactly, is preventing him from harming this particular Jedi. The Sith, for all of his craftiness, patience, and power, doesn't seem to _understand_ his foe.

"At an end, your rule is," Yoda tells him, each word punctuated by a brief pulse of light (it fills him now, and yet it _still_ continues to pour in). He shifts one foot slightly so that he is squared up and set firmly. Had he looked at a window, he might have been surprised to see tiny tendrils of gold seeping into his eyes.

The Sith sees it and grits his teeth. Sidious doesn't understand where it comes from or what it means, but the darkness that he has given his soul to _understands perfectly_ and is afraid. Sidioius snarls incoherently and then _pushes_. Darkness explodes.

But Yoda is already smiling an odd little half-smile (he cannot bring himself to grin even though a part of him feels unnaturally giddy) and raising a single, weathered palm. "And not short enough, it was," he finishes softly. Sadly. Joyfully.

Yoda closes gold-green eyes, sucks in a final breath, and then lets it out. All of it. Everything he has, he pours into a single stream of sheer, unadulterated, white-gold light that meets Sidious' attack head-on and _annihilates_ it. Darkness shatters, bits and pieces of it scattering and then disappearing as if it had never existed. An _ocean_ of sun-streaked, blazing fire rushes over the Sith and the monster flails his arms, gasping for breath and cursing Yoda's name in the same garbled sentence. Absently, Yoda reflects that he really shouldn't be standing right now. He feels drained, light-headed, _empty_.

But still he pours it out. This Force that he has served for his entire life is finally asking him for everything he has (or perhaps it's always been asking), and so he willingly gives it.

The Dark's carefully-crafted servant ends in only seconds of battle. In truth, there isn't much of a battle at all. Just an ugly pulse of tainted Force-energy and a single blast of pure starlit light.

Yoda ends too, with a soft sigh and an even softer smile (his Force flits around him and out of him in thick currents of white, glittering _gold_ ). The gimer stick that he has carried with him for over six centuries lands beside him, no longer needed. Its wielder is utterly _spent_.


	8. Chaos (Anakin)

Chaos. It's a noun defined by complete disorder and confusion. It's also formless, sometimes dark, sometimes feisty, often carrying a negative tone, always causing confusion, sometimes causing insanity, and truly puzzling. It doesn't belong.

Anakin looks at darkness and he thinks, _chaos._ There is no rhyme or reason to darkness, no purpose for its existence except to give the light something to fight against, and he wonders where it comes from. _It's the quiet moments_ , he muses, smirking a little. No one notices. The battle had been fierce and their makeshift med-bay is bubbling with activity. Apprentice healers (just three because that's all the Temple could spare to send with them) are busying themselves with about two dozen injured clones and one Jedi master barely clinging to life.

Anakin watches the Jedi's face, outwardly impassive, inwardly terrified. Obi-wan can't die. Not yet, not now, and certainly not at the hands of _battle droids_. Obi-wan is too good for such a mundane death.

 _He deserves better_ , he thinks. It should be a duel. _The_ duel. This man deserves nothing less than a glorious death, so why not the death that ends all wars? A noble sacrifice. Anakin is certain that this war will not be decided by sprawling battles or political debates. It is dark versus light. Jedi versus Sith.

And the Jedi will win.

Obi-wan's breaths are coming in ragged gasps. He hears one healer mutter something about broken ribs, punctured lungs, and blaster bolts and he decides he can't watch. The inner workings of his durasteel arm groan as he pushes off from the makeshift table, rising to leave the shelter of the rickety structure. Perhaps he should do something about that. Grease it or something… "Master Skywalker!"

Turning, his eyes lock with the dark, anxious gaze of a woman at least six years his junior, still a teenager. He doesn't answer, merely holds her gaze.

"It – he's – you need to stabilize him. I'm not st-strong enough," she stammers.

He's watched her work since he arrives and knows she's not lying. A few more years, and she'll make a fine healer indeed, but right now she's not enough. Not enough for his master. Not enough.

Anakin grits his teeth and brushes back past her without a word. _Chaos_. Obi-wan is in a cold sweat now, struggling for every breath, gray-blue eyes clenched tight with pain, barely holding on.

Because of _battle droids_. Even as he places a hand on his master's chest, his mind wanders again. _There is no point, no purpose,_ he decides. There is no point to darkness and yet it continues to rear its ugly head and wreak havoc on the people he loves. _What can I do with something that can't be beat?_

A pulse of warmth leaves his hand and shoves its way into the older man's chest, right above the lungs. Anakin isn't really sure what to do except to try and shift the bones away from the lungs, even _out_ of the lungs. He knows that's not the best thing to do, but what else can he do? Obi-wan can't _breathe_ , for Force's sake! "What should I do?!" he hears himself say, and he truly does sound terrified. Panicked, even.

The healer is at his side, both of her hands reaching to match his. "Stabilize his heart, slow the blood flow," she says, voice calm despite the anxious waves rolling off of her. " _Don't_ touch the bones. I'll deal with those. Take care of his heart."

His heart. Take care of Obi-wan's _heart_. _Why is this happening?_ _Why Obi-wan?_

Struggling to calm himself, Anakin gently wraps Obi-wan's heart in a cocoon and slows its frantic rhythm just a touch. He can almost see the cautious shifting of bones as the healer works. When she lets out a startled gasp, Anakin loses focus and his master's heart resumes its rushed cadence. "What happened?" he demands, turning to fix her with a dark, accusing gaze.

She doesn't look at him, but is staring at Obi-wan's chest in shock. "I – I – I missed," she stutters, seemingly frozen. In seconds, she's turned and is calling for another of the healers.

Obi-wan is gasping, _gagging_ on what can only be his own blood, and Anakin is helpless. _He's dying_. _He'll be gone, just like my mother, and I can do nothing._ He backs away from the scene and leans heavily against the same table he had been sitting on before. A second healer sprints over to Obi-wan and begins asking questions and barking directions.

 _There is no light in this place. No light in the universe. Just darkness. Chaos._

A flash of green and a startled cry jerk Anakin from his thoughts. Another man is shoving his way in between the two healers and bending over his master's ragged form. In this battered shelter, full of wounded soldiers, rank smells, and blood-crusted armor, the man's deep emerald robes stand out.

 _Life_ , Anakin immediately thinks. He blinks. Soft grass, tall trees, the Temple gardens… green is the color of _life_. He stands again, moved to action by the presence of this stranger. The two healers have gone silent and are concentrating on whatever the man is doing. Anakin draws closer and moves around to the other side so that he can see.

This new man, healer – Jedi? – is not doing anything different. His hand is on Obi-wan's chest and his dark eyes are focused on his master's face. His other hand reaches down to grasp the Jedi's hand in what appears to be a comforting gesture. It all looks no different from what the girl had been trying only moments earlier.

"Peace," the man whispers, smiling a little.

 _How can he smile? How can he stand there, watching my master_ die _, and_ smile? _Can't he see that there's nothing he can do?_

Obi-wan stills. The sound of agonizing pain dissipates into the soft, even breaths of a man who is simply sleeping. Anakin blinks.

There had been no pulse in the Force, not even a _hint_ of bones being shoved back into place. The man removes the hand from Obi-wan's chest, but his other hand is still grasping that of the wounded man. "He'll be fine," he announces, voice firm, but not unkind. It's a gentle reassurance.

"What did you do?" Anakin asks, unable to keep his astonishment in check.

And then the man turns, still holding on to Obi-wan's hand, and Anakin retreats a step. Only in Master Yoda has he ever been faced with such a look. There is age and youth, heaviness and humor, wisdom and joy, and an immense sorrow that Anakin finds all too familiar. And then the man smiles and Anakin feels something inside of himself break, shattering into millions of pieces.

He cries, turning away because it's silly, he thinks, for his own soldiers and the apprentice healers to see him vulnerable like this.

A hand grasps his shoulder, halting his retreat. It's firm, but gentle in a way that Anakin doesn't understand. "He will live," the stranger reassures him. "Death is not so strong an enemy as you believe, my friend."

Encouraging words, to be sure, but Anakin had seen it. Death had already claimed Obi-wan as one of its own, and only this man had torn his master out of its grasp. He dares to turn back and looks into the man's eyes one more time. The man doesn't look away from his searching stare. "What did you do?" Anakin asks again, though his voice still shudders with silent sobs that shake his strong frame every few seconds.

"I did my job, Master Jedi." Dark eyes stare into Anakin's soul for one heart-stopping moment before the man smiles again. "Now if you'll excuse me, there are others that need help."

Nodding hastily and stepping away to let the stranger (healer, not-Jedi…) pass, Anakin stutters, "Of-of course. Right. Sorry..." He watches the splash of color weave in and around tables and cots and pain-wracked men, occasionally stopping to offer assistance, before it ( _he…_ this stranger with life rubbed into his robes and sprouting from his hands) disappears from the tent.

 _Obi-wan._

Anakin rushes to his friend's side and smiles slightly when he catches the sound of soft snores cutting through the steady stream of more unpleasant sounds. He cannot bring himself to smile wider, because the ugly, garbled, hacking, choking, _desperate_ attempt Obi-wan had made at breathing just minutes ago is still fresh in his memory.

 _Chaos…_ _isn't permanent._ He blinks, startled. Obi-wan is breathing like a healthy human is supposed to breathe, Anakin himself can breathe normally again as well (because his world is suddenly unshattered and mostly together), and things are _okay._

 _Peace._

The opposite of chaos?

Anakin wonders at this (and now he's frowning), because _peace_ is something that the Jedi lay claim to. But _this_ peace, this _permanent_ , very _real_ peace… hadn't come from a Jedi. No Jedi healer, no Jedi _master_ (because the master had been choking on his own blood on the table), no Jedi _anything_ had brought about this sudden realization that everything is _okay._

Anakin's gaze drifts towards the tent flap where that flash of green had last been spotted. He is still staring at it when Obi-wan begins to stir ten minutes later. "An'kin?" the older man mumbles sleepily.

Jerked from his thoughts, Anakin looks down and grins (even though he really wants to cry again, because…), "Master!"

Gray-blue eyes capture his and ginger brows furrow in confusion. "…yes?"

"You're okay." (… you should be dead.)


	9. Diverge (Dooku)

The former Jedi's residence is expansive, to be sure. This Obi-wan expected. What he hadn't expected was the understatedly posh speeder sent to pick him up, driven by a respectable chauffer ordered to say absolutely nothing of relevance.

"Thank you, kind sir. I will assure your employer that you've been frustratingly vague and have delivered me as promised," he says dryly as he steps from the vehicle. He shoots the man an amused look. "I know nothing more than when I arrived."

The young man looks like a boy and acts like a boy. The trip from the spaceport to their destination had been plenty long enough for him to have attained at least _something_ from the kid. His attempts to subtly squeeze any sort of helpful information from the boy had been subtly parried aside with all of the deft skill of someone far more experienced than the kid's age implied.

"Just doing my job, sir," the boy says, all professional manners and youthful cheek. Dark eyes glint with amusement beneath dark brows and Obi-wan is reminded of the energetic teenager he left at the Temple.

He tips the lad. Generously.

"Oh no, sir. I can't possibly –"

"And I was giving up hope of every seeing you flustered," he says with a chuckle. The youth has the grace to blush. "Keep it. I'm sure you are paid handsomely and all that, so consider it a gesture of appreciation for your considerable… talents. However irritating they may be."

"But –"

"Master Kenobi," a new voice drawls, deeper and much more cultured than this young man's. "Will you please desist from your incessant badgering?"

Obi-wan smirks at the driver (the boy seems shocked that he would dare to be anything but nervous in the company of this other man) before smoothing his expression and pivoting to face the newcomer. "My apologies, Count. I am merely trying to tip your driver for a job well done, but I assume he is not allowed to receive tips?"

Count Dooku, former Jedi, one of the Lost, and suspected architect of the Separatist Coalition, nods graciously. _His_ dark eyes are anything but amused, and yet they seem just a touch softer than when Obi-wan had last seen him. "You may keep it, Ori. Just this once." The young man grants the two of them a little half bow and then turns without further comment and reenters the speeder. Within seconds it is just Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi and the Count of Serenno standing at the beginning of a winding pathway leading to the entrance of the Count's sprawling estate. Dooku studies Obi-wan through narrowed eyes glinting with _something_ before spreading an arm towards his home. "Shall we?"

Obi-wan steps smoothly into the lead while inwardly puzzling over the former Jedi's play at manners. It is no secret that the man despises the Order and all that it stands for.

"I hold no ill will towards you personally, Master Kenobi," the man says from a step behind him. "Though my reputation within your sacred home is no doubt of somewhat ill repute, I assure you that I am anything but a barbarian when it comes to behaving civilly."

There is a touch of amused sarcasm there that makes Obi-wan grind his teeth. The reminder that the Count has never been anything but a suave gentleman in various social arenas not only grates on his nerves (he mentally curses himself for thinking otherwise), but is also grudgingly appreciated. "Thank you," he replies in a tone that just barely conveys his irritation. "Do you mind if we wait until we are inside to discuss things?"

" _Things_ , Master Jedi?"

Without turning, Obi-wan smirks. "In the right company, the term can quite easily imply something obvious while remaining insufferably vague to those giving unwanted attention."

The Count's sigh is barely audible. "And yet it is decidedly _unpolitic._ "

"As I said," Obi-wan cheerfully replies, "only in the right company."

"It's a miracle Qui-gon didn't succumb sooner."

Had the comment been from any other, Anakin included (because his deceased master is still a touchy subject between them…), Obi-wan most certainly would have bristled and growled some distinctly _choice_ words in response. Coming from this man, though…

He only smiles. "Probably. So. Ori. I'm afraid I haven't been to Serenno more than twice, including this visit. I am not very familiar with your people's names nor their culture, but _that_ young man is fulfilling his life's purpose."

The Count chuckles wryly. There is clear amusement there, but it carries a dark edge to it, something that Obi-wan has never felt comfortable with. "Yes, Ori is quite suited to the position. Currently, he is a paid intern acting as my personal chauffer as well as my assistant on occasion." The pause that follows is long enough to make Obi-wan stop and glance back. Dooku is kneeling beside a rose bush and fingering one of the white blossoms with a frown. "They're dry again," he hears the man mutter. When he notices Obi-wan waiting, he rises smoothly to his feet and joins him once more. "Names are very important on our planet. Ori's mother gifted him with a good one."

The way Dooku says 'good' is so matter of fact that had he not known the man better, he would've thought nothing special about the boy's name. But Dooku hardly ever wastes words, so the comment makes him smile. "Good?"

"It means 'light'."

Ah. Very good, indeed. "Perhaps if I meet him at a different time, when he isn't expertly thwarting my every attempt to gain some sort of traction, then I might learn to like him," Obi-wan comments as they near the entrance.

Count Dooku passes him with a few graceful strides and casts a sidelong glance in his direction. "You like him already."

Obi-wan murmurs his thanks as Dooku holds the door for him and then they are inside. It takes a long moment for him to adjust to the rather luxurious interior. There is a great deal of black and darker shades of crimson that make the spacious home seem smothered in shadows, but Obi-wan feels surprisingly at ease. The Count's wealth is obvious, but it isn't screaming in his face. The furniture that he can see (tables holding plants, a large desk in a corner, a large table partially hidden by a dividing wall) is either handcrafted or made of some sort of metal manufactured on-planet (he read somewhere that Serenno exports a vast amount of resources). The lighting is dim, but large windows let in the sun. He finds himself absently gravitating towards one of the plants and reaches to run his fingers along one of its massive leaves. It is an odd plant with spindly, yet sturdy, branches and a total of seven large leaves. Qui-gon would have loved it.

"While I appreciate your admiration for my plants, that particular species prefers not to be touched."

Obi-wan pulls his hand away and turns towards his host who has disappeared and returned with a glass of red liquid in each hand. Inside of his home, fingering two glasses of what the Jedi assumes to be a horrendously expensive variety of wine, Dooku looks as if he belongs nowhere else. The man's black attire makes his dark eyes darker and more piercing than they've ever been and his Force signature seemingly has no beginning and no end. It just _is._ Dooku is not even remotely out of place here.

For a moment, Obi-wan is happy for him. No matter that he left. No matter that he started a movement that is very much against the Republic that his former Order serves. No matter that he used to hunt shadows for a living and he doesn't seem to have stopped.

Obi-wan blinks. Dooku smiles.

It's a smile edged with something shady.

Obi-wan accepts the drink with a nod of thanks. "Well, we're inside."

"We are," Dooku agrees. "I suppose you've been thoroughly briefed about my message?"

"You mentioned that you'd discovered something of great importance."

"Yes."

Obi-wan had been looking at the sparsely-leafed plant again, but at that single word he flicks his attention fully to the Count. Though containing only a single word, Obi-wan had _felt_ the gravity in his answer. "Well?"

Dooku's dark eyes don't leave the Jedi as he takes a sip of his wine. "I met with a senator about a month ago to discuss a bill he is planning to propose and other minor _things_ that have no relevance to our discussion here."

In other words, Dooku preferred to keep his political movements to himself. Obi-wan frowns. "And?"

"I have reason to believe that the man is not only Force-sensitive, but powerful as well." The Count pauses, studying Obi-wan. "And dark. _Very_ dark."

Suddenly, the Jedi feels cold. "You think that he's a Sith."

Dark eyes are still staring at him. Assessing, separating, filing details away, seeing things that Obi-wan doesn't want him to see. "I do."

"You can't know for certain." Obi-wan is _still_ scrabbling for traction. Ori had left him slipping and tottering, but Dooku has just sent him sailing off the edge of a cliff. _Not another one…_

When Yan Dooku smiles, it is the smile that Obi-wan remembers. The smile of a hunter, a predator who has found a trail worth following. The smile of someone who knows his quarry and knows them _well_. It is a smile dripping with staunch determination, brimming with fierce intelligence, and oozing with self-confidence.

"I have been to worlds driven mad by a darkness you could never imagine, Master Kenobi. Don't forget my days as a Jedi. I may no longer serve your Order, but I still consider myself something of an _expert_ when it comes to the _messier_ side of the Force."

Messier. Not darker. This man doesn't waste words and so Obi-wan considers the semantic difference worth noting. "Even so…" he trails off when Dooku's smile goes flat. He is not afraid, per say, but he is definitely on his guard.

Especially when the Count takes a few steps forward. "Spare me your Jedi doubts, Kenobi. You are a fool if you believe that you can ignore my advice in this. I spent over sixty _years_ studying and hunting creatures of darkness. This man is a Sith, I guarantee it. I know their scent."

Their scent. To Obi-wan, this scent is bathed in crimson hues, fiery rage, and icy, murderous intent. It is loud, nasty, and painful in its proximity. He wonders what the Sith feel and smell like to the man before him. He imagines it is a very different sensation. Coolly holding the Count's gaze with his own, he nods once. "Very well. You have my attention and, by extension, the Council's. What do you plan to do about this?"

Dooku smiles again and Obi-wan feels a chill snake down his spine. It hardens and settles itself in his gut. The Jedi suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.

"My business is my own, Master Jedi. I think the more important question is, what is the _Order_ going to do about this? Because if the Council chooses to do _nothing_ , as is their habit, then I'm afraid _my_ intentions might become a bit of a problem for them and, by extension, for _you._ "

Obi-wan narrows his eyes, right hand twitching towards his weapon. "Do you intend to ally yourself with this man?" he asks softly.

The Count releases a bark of genuine laughter, though his smile is no less dark and his eyes no less hard. "Do I intend to become a _Sith_? Master Kenobi, you disappoint me. I had hoped you were above such loathsome stereotypes."

"The work of Shadows puts them at greater risk for obvious reasons. Everyone knows this," Obi-wan retorts.

"You mean that since they spend most of their waking moments studying, hunting, and eliminating traces of evil, then they become more vulnerable to its seductions, is that it?" Dooku's voice has grown even colder and he has set his wine glass on a nearby table.

"Bad company breeds bad morals," Obi-wan quips.

Dooku grants him a small nod. "Perhaps. I will admit that I have grown somewhat indifferent towards certain methods others would find appalling. However, I would also suggest the opposite. Familiarity breeds contempt, does it not? The Code demands that hatred be set aside, and yet some things deserve very much to be hated. There are not many Jedi, _except_ the Shadows, who know their enemy well enough to truly despise it. Tell me, _Obi-wan_ , how close did you come to embracing the Dark when you avenged Qui-gon's death?"

Obi-wan flinches, frowning. He doesn't drop Dooku's gaze, but he remains silent.

"I wager you came very close indeed. In fact, you probably thought you _were_ avenging his death, but revenge is not the way of the Jedi. Shadows know this and they know it well. There are some who fall, yes, but there are many more who look at the enemy and see only an evil that must be eliminated before it spreads."

"And you are one of the many?" Obi-wan challenges.

"I _was_ one of the many, Master Kenobi. I am no longer a Jedi and thus, no longer a Shadow. As such, I am no longer subject to the orders of a Council, nor must I await their summons to proceed on missions. I am free to operate as I see fit. Considering I pled my case to deaf ears for over six decades with no success, I consider this a _vast_ improvement."

"You would interfere with the Order's handling of this situation?"

Dooku smirks. "Only if your means of handling it prove… ineffective."

 _He wants the man dead,_ Obi-wan realizes. He lets out a long breath and lifts a hand to run it through his hair. "I understand. Can you provide a name?"

Dooku takes up his wine glass, swirls it thoughtfully, and then takes another sip before speaking. "His name is Sheev Palpatine. From Naboo."


	10. Diverge (Obi-wan)

"How much for the kid?"

The "kid" has just exited the shop on Watto's orders to scram and he narrows his eyes at the visitor (off-worlder by his bearing). "E chu ta," he growls. "I sell only parts, not boys."

The man is dressed in worn, but sturdy attire and sports a few days' worth of stubble. One of his calloused hands scratches at his chin as he flashes the shop-owner a sarcastic smile. "That's funny. I'm actually here to sell _you_ some parts in exchange for that boy of yours. Unless, of course, you'll agree to take a cash amount, but you don't strike me as the type that settles for less than top bill."

Watto's wings hitch in irritation and he drops a few inches before rising to hover nose to nose with the man once more. "It will take more than a few shiny parts to win that boy. Is good mechanic and comes at a high price."

The man's eyes glint with something unidentifiable as he pulls a sleek datapad from inside of his jacket. "Perhaps this will peak your interest," he says, tapping the screen a few times before handing it over.

Watto sneers when he takes it, but when he looks at the screen his heart speeds up and he begins to scroll hungrily through the graphics displayed before him. "I get the entire ship, yes?"

He can almost _hear_ the man smirk. "Yes. Plus a few additional bells and whistles, if you're interested."

The ship, an Aka'jor-class shuttle manufactured by MandalMotors, is as dangerous as it is ugly. Watto knows that as a whole, he would receive very little interest from buyers, but its engine is the envy of every ship manufacturer in the galaxy and he knows a few pod racers who would pay good money for it. Broken down, the ship holds enough valuable parts to sustain his business for another five years and then some.

He also knows that this ship is worth more than two-dozen slaves, and he figures the stranger knows it as well.

Nevertheless…

"Bells and whistles, you say?" he prompts, still scrolling through graphics and pausing when he reaches estimated production costs (with his margins he would turn a truly ridiculous profit).

"On one condition."

Watto looks up at the man, appraising him with newfound respect (or as much respect as he's ever afforded anyone). "Yes?"

"The kid's mother. I want her too." There is a hardness to the man's voice and his odd, clipped accent grows more pronounced.

Watto isn't fazed in the slightest. "This is Tatooine, boy. Name your bells and whistles and _I'll_ decide if they're worth two slaves." The last words draws a flinch and Watto smiles.

The off-worlder's mouth ticks up at one corner as he reaches for the datapad. "I took the liberty of adding my own personal touches to it, but I can just as easily remove them if you decide she isn't worth it."

Once glance is all Watto needs. "Very well." The galaxy is on the brink of war; he figures he can easily sell weapons to the highest bidder. There is no shortage of bounty hunters in the Outer Rim, after all. "Bring me merchandise first, and then you get your slaves."

This time the flinch is more subdued, but the man's smile only grows. "On the contrary, you bring them to me now, or you get no ship and no added weaponry."

Watto has played this game a million times over and this man is no hutt. "No deal," he spits before turning with a dismissive wave.

"Rumor has it that a Nubian starship has been spotted in the Dune Sea."

"So?"

"There may be Jedi on board."

He has no qualms about Jedi. "Maybe they need parts for their ship, eh?" he retorts with a huff of laughter.

"Perhaps," the man grants. "But my guess is that they'll be more interested in your boy than in your spare parts. And trust me…"

Watto turns.

The stranger smiles, all youthful dimples and glinting eyes. "They will either pay you far less than my current offer, or they'll just take him without paying anything at all."

It really isn't even a choice. Watto mutters a vulgar insult and then fetches his slaves. One week later, he receives the stranger's payment in full with a document recording the ship's transfer of ownership.

Kenobi's name is added to his mental list of potential suppliers. The man is young, but his resources seem extensive, and Watto decides the name is worth remembering.


	11. Diverge (Commander Cody)

He hands the Jedi his weapon and they both share a short laugh over their mutual agreement that Anakin is never to know about this incident (or the few other times Kenobi has managed to lose his lightsaber). Cody watches the man ride his temporary mount directly up the cliff face and shakes his head. Though the remarkable has become somewhat commonplace with a Jedi around, his amazement at what the warriors can do with their mystical Force has yet to disappear. This sort of thing still astonishes him. Still makes him stop (foolishly) in the middle of a war zone and stare for just the briefest of moments.

Later, he decides that _that_ brief moment had been far, _far_ too brief.

The next thing he knows, he is staring at a fuzzy blue image of a wrinkly, hooded man that vaguely resembles someone that he thinks he's seen before, and the man cackles five words at him that seem to turn his entire world inside out: "Commander Cody, execute Order 66."

The manufactured, genetically coded part of him (a very _large_ part of him), makes him respond almost ( _almost_ ) instantaneously: "It will be done, my Lord."

Instinct turns his body to give the order while he silently complains that the timing truly couldn't have been worse (he should have kept the blasted lightsaber for 'safekeeping').

Cody the clone raises a plated arm and gestures towards his Jedi general who is swiftly climbing up sheer, vertical rock with relative ease. _Blast him!_ The words are right there on the tip of his tongue.

But another word slips into his perfectly ordered, perfectly coded, glitch-free mind and introduces chaos with a subtle, but very firm question: _Cody?_

He's done this for months, his general. Spoken silent inquiries into his head from short distances. Easier to communicate that way. Easier to relay strategies. Easier to fire off orders without having to shout between the noises. Easier to tell him when to duck because a blaster bolt might just take his head off. Easier to tell him when to disengage and fall back because _I've got this, Commander_.

It's just easier. Easier to _survive_ that way.

 _Blast him, blast him, BLAST HIM!_ Raw, ingrained, completely natural instinct screams at him, and he opens his mouth to relay the message, the _order_ , but then he stops. Again.

 _BLAST HIM!_

Why?

This is the small part of him that had hesitated ever so briefly between receiving Order 66 and responding to said order. This is the part of him that has slowly learned to _trust_ Kenobi over his instincts. Because even though his instincts are sharp, they don't save him from blaster bolts to the back. Because even though his mind knows military strategy almost as well as his general's (and that's saying something), this mind that he has rarely tells him to retreat. Because even though he makes an excellent soldier and a brilliant commander, his training and his rank are useless when the enemy is full of Force-fueled rage and wielding crimson 'sabers that treat blasters like tuber-guns. Because even though he should have been dead a dozen times over, he isn't.

Because even though he is registered as CC-2224 and has never really minded, Kenobi calls him _Cody_ (always a name never the… number).

 _Cody? Everything okay down there?_

Execute Order 66. Do it, do it, do it, do it… _no_. Kenobi introduced chaos, and it spreads like a virus now. Only it doesn't kill him. His general would _never_ kill him. Cody knows this Jedi, this man, this _friend_ of his, and he knows him _well._

"Commander Cody, execute Order 66."

The words echo in his mind, but they're hollow now. An empty gurgle from a wrinkly, darkly-hooded man that Cody doesn't know _at all_. A man that, oddly enough, would not look entirely out of sorts with a red lightsaber in hand. A man who speaks his name without having earned the permission to do so.

 _Cody?_

The clone (oh but he is _more_ than a clone) follows his own pointing hand and finds that Kenobi has stopped and is turned in his seat, attached to the rock face by the lizard's grip and nothing more.

He has never tried to send a message back, but he decides that this is a good enough time to try. _I've got you covered, sir._ Something within him clicks into place (or does it fall _out of_ place?) when the Jedi doesn't even remotely hesitate (there is no _almost_ there, only trust) before turning back around and urging the beast on.

 _See you soon, Commander._

Beneath his helmet, where no one can see, Cody smirks. In a short time, once they have finished their business here, he and General Kenobi will have a very long discussion about orders and numbers and clones and wrinkly-faced men. Right now, though, Cody lets his arm wave almost comically in the general direction of the general and opens his mouth once more.

"Cover him!" From what, exactly, Cody doesn't know (like anything can harm the man when he's armed and has space to maneuver). But Kenobi is still safely attached to his lizard, which is still safely scrabbling up the cliff, and he decides that he can issue a completely irrelevant order and risk the inevitable needling from his men if it means that the general lives to needle him about it as well.

In the end, there is no needling whatsoever. Somehow the order has reached some of the others, and half of the 212th turns on their general while the other half obediently follows Cody's orders.

In the end, he and Kenobi, along with only a handful of others, escape alive.

In the end, once they have heard the tragic news of what has happened, General Kenobi turns to look at him and attempts a half-smile (one of the ones that's half genuine and half lost). "You're a good man, Cody."

Cody doesn't smile, but he does nod. "Thank you, sir. Now what's the plan?" For the first time that Cody can recall, the Jedi doesn't seem to have one.

So he gives the man a hard look, nods again, and pulls out a datapad. With a few swipes, he opens up a structural layout of the Jedi Temple. "Here are our options from where I'm standing…"

"I'm standing right beside you, Cody."

An old joke, and a bad one, but this time it _means_ something. None of them laugh, but suddenly things don't seem quite so hopeless. "Right." He nods. "Here are our options from where _we're_ standing…"


	12. Tame (Mace Windu)

He has an affinity for darkness. This baffles most people, including his fellow Jedi, because surely a man who can wield the Force's darkest currents with a dexterity not found among the Sith should not be called a servant of the Light. Should not be the Master of the Order. Should not be unfallen.

But he is, and it's terrifying. He is a being not easily understood, or perhaps not understood at all.

Haruun Kal's strongest alpha studies him and wonders why he doesn't bow, why he doesn't break, why he doesn't submit, and why he doesn't lose (they are brothers of a kind, after all, and he had thought that their shared heritage might imply other similarities, but he finds that the implication is nonexistent where this one is concerned). The Jedi may be Korun by birth, but Kar Vastor _knows_ Korun people in a way that no one else does, and this man is no Korun. He is a Jedi (he never had any respect for Jedi before, thought them weak and fragile… he will never make that mistake again).

A native of the planet would look at this Mace of the Windu and see another native: dark skin, dark eyes glinting with danger, and a graceful step born from hunting and being hunted. Kar would never see any of that ever again. Not in the same way, at least. The Jedi's eyes _do_ glint with something dangerous, almost feral in their intensity. The Windu _does_ move with effortless, soundless grace. This man _has_ hunted and he _has_ been hunted (but not by other men).

Kar looks at Mace Windu and he blinks. He growls a few words at the Jedi, but inside he is both bewildered and, loathe though he is to admit it, just the tiniest bit afraid. It is a strange sensation, fear. Not one that he is very familiar with, but one that he recognizes nonetheless.

 _Come on, then: jungle rules,_ he murmurs. He can tell that the Jedi hears the words, bonded to _pelekotan_ as he is. He also knows that he is all but invisible to this Windu, a living shadow among the dead sprawled at their feet. Even so, the Jedi's eyes twitch in his direction and the sigh he heaves seems directed at him too.

"On the contrary," the Korun Jedi says (and this man is _somehow_ both Korun and Jedi now), "Jedi rules."

A Korun playing by Jedi rules. Kar studies _pelekotan_ as it weaves its way around and through his native brother and wonders, truly curious now, what Jedi rules are. Because even though he has never left the jungles, Kar has heard of the Jedi and their light. He has _seen_ this light, in this very man when they had fought just days earlier and Kar had beaten him senseless.

But now this Jedi blends with the shadows almost as much as Kar does. _Pelekotan_ does not grow lighter (weaker) as it nears this Mace. It darkens instead, a stark contrast to its previous form around the Jedi. It moves around the man in a heavy cloud, thick with power, intoxicating in presence, and weighted with sorrow.

For a split second, Kar thinks that he _understands_ this man.

So he dares to ask a question, to indulge his curiosity, even though he still hums with anticipation and burns with the itch to rend the challenger limb from pathetic limb.

 _What are Jedi rules?_

The dark head tilts. "You don't need to know. You're not a Jedi."

True enough, but Kar is beginning to answer his own question. His vibroshields whine to life and the Windu's violet weapon springs free from its clip. Neither of them move. _You fear to attack me._

But he doesn't. This man, this Korun, this Jedi has no fear. Not of Kar. Nor of this dark, suffocating planet. Kar knows this now.

"Jedi do not fear" ( _Correction, you do not fear_ me.) "And we do not attack." ( _With fists, no. With weapons, no._ _But with words, brother?_ ) But Kar says nothing. "As long as you stand in peace, so do I. You have just learned two of the Jedi rules. For what little good they will do you. You haven't been paying very close attention, Kar. And it's too late to start now. It's over."

Kar feels his blood begin to boil. _Nothing is over! NOTHING. Not while we both live._ He growls these words and _pelekotan_ rumbles menacingly. The Windu barely flinches.

"This is another Jedi rule." Kar watches him move to empty, body-free space, watches him shift weight, and he would have laughed, but he is too _ticked off_ for that. This shifting of weight, this balancing of body, this coiling of _pelekotan_ , this is all done in readiness to _attack._ Kar knows this because he's seen this Jedi fight.

"If you fight a Jedi, you've already lost."

( _I would kill a normal Jedi, you fool._ )

But again he keeps the words to himself. He engages this strange Jedi in the game of the jungle (because they are both scrabbling for purchase, both looking for weaknesses, both seeking dominance, both doing what Korun do), even as he grows angrier. Mace of the Windu is wrong. Kar _has_ been paying attention, _close_ attention.

This Windu tastes of fear as much as he tastes of power and sorrow. This Windu attacks more than he defends (though he is far too subtle about it for Kar's jungle-honed tastes). And this Windu is a very strange Jedi indeed.

 _Pelekotan_ thrums with dark, heated power through the _both_ of them. Yet neither of them is consumed. Kar thinks that the Windu's fellow Jedi might find this strange.

Kar merely finds it _familiar._

( _Enough of this._ )

He attacks and so does the Windu. But _he_ does it a split second later, because he fancies himself a _Jedi._

( _Liar._ )

Mace of the Windu is a Korun through and through: born of the jungle, born of the darkness, born with the passion of _pelekotan_ boiling in his veins. No less dangerous, no less powerful. But…

( _He is tame, this one._ ) A tame Korun. A Korun Jedi. Kar decides the man is the first of his kind…

And likely to be the last, if he has any say in it.

* * *

 _The spoken dialogue in this chapter is from_ Shatterpoint _by Matthew Stover. I highly recommend reading it. :)_


	13. Diverge (Qui-gon)

When he lands his borrowed starfighter on the plains surrounding Chateau Malreaux, it seems as though the planet itself shudders at his presence. Shudders and then strikes out in fear.

He sets out at an easy, loping jog as soon as he exits the cockpit. The rain, only a sporadic shower minutes ago, is suddenly a hissing torrent, spattering against his robes and upturned cowl, soaking into his first layer of protection and eating away at the tough materials as though they were mere sheets of flimsi. Though his cowl shields the bulk of his head, a few drops manage to land on his face and he winces at their slight burn. Flicking his eyes in a quick, sweeping glance, he surveys his surroundings, measures them against the many places he has traveled, and then nods once as he ups his pace.

 _I've found it at last_.

The atmosphere had been a mottled mix of brown and gray and the cloud cover is no different down here on the surface. The ground he treads is covered in the acid-eaten remains of dead grasses and shrubbery. It is soggy and smelly, and his boots are soon caked in it. Jagged outcroppings of rock constitute the surrounding scenery and even they seem to represent some sort of dead, scraggled city that had at some point been subdued, looted, and left to waste away into nothing.

The castle he jogs toward resembles one of the skeletous outcroppings, but there are points of light marking windows and a pathway leading up to its massive doors. It is the only sign of life on this planet that died years ago from madness and foolish ambition.

 _I've found the land of shadows. Of hopelessness. Of despair…_

He pauses in his musings, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a shell of a smirk.

 _So dramatic._

The brief moment of humor is dashed to pieces when he gets closer to the large mansion. A fresh curtain of acid rain batters him ruthlessly, bringing with it a heavy cloud of thick darkness that rumbles loudly in his ears and seeks to smother him into a senseless, brainless wreck.

The rangy giant of a man finally deems it necessary to speak. Another man in his chosen walk of life might have spoken out loud minutes earlier simply to keep himself sane. This particular man secured his sanity decades ago and now merely frowns in response to this insidious threat.

"Nice try." He speaks the two words slowly, deliberately, with _emphasis._ The darkness, along with the acid rain, shrinks away from him as he passes. He barely breaks stride as he does so, continuing on as if the acid rain, the threatening clouds, the looming mansion, and the dark, writhing currents mean nothing.

Because they don't. Not to him. But to the man he has come for, to the man inside of this sprawling mansion, they do mean something. They have always meant something.

Soon enough, the door is right in front of him and he hesitates only briefly before pushing it open. He knows there isn't much time before the other two get here. Yoda had barely been persuaded to let him come in his stead, but trying to persuade the old master to let him come alone had been a waste of time. Instead of wasting that time, he had left in a hurry, determined to be as far ahead of his old padawan and the Skywalker boy as possible.

He wagers he has about twenty minutes tops.

 _Stairs,_ he thinks. _Where are the stairs?_ He finds them around the corner. There are blood stains on them, rusted and flaking off. Obviously old. Whoever had caused them apparently hadn't cared enough to clean them up. _Madness._

The dark forces around him make a final valiant attempt to stop him, seizing the brief moment of distraction to slither inside of his defenses through hairline cracks that he hadn't thought susceptible. Immediately he staggers, faltering on the stairs, left foot tripping on a rusted stain and coming away crusted with the remains of someone else's stolen life.

 _You will die here, Jedi. Just like the rest of them._

"No," he whispers, head pounding, right hand white-knuckled on the banister.

 _We will take your soul and leave you empty. Only a shell, Jedi. Just a shell._

"No," he repeats.

 _YOU WILL DIE!_

"Force _blast it,_ NO!" he shouts, releasing just the tiniest of energy-blasts as he straightens. For a moment, he thinks he hears something screeching as it flees. "You have no power over me," he mutters. Ignoring the dried blood on his boot and the multiple stains on the steps, he continues on.

The mansion is old, ancient even, and there is a darkness here that he has only ever faced once before. It lingers in shadows and walks beside him at the same time, both terrified and unbothered by the fact that it hasn't beaten him, swayed him, corrupted him, or convinced him.

 _How odd_ , he thinks. _I'm alone and yet I feel surrounded._ Out loud, he only says two words: "Never again."

He _will_ take this man with him. He _must_. He has lost too much, tried too hard, and hoped for too long to fail now. _But it's not my fault, and if he refuses, then it won't be my failure._ This he knows to be true.

There is something about the third floor that makes him hesitate and then step off of the stairs. The hallway he finds himself in is surprisingly short and exceptionally wide. It is no darker than the rest of the mansion and is lit by dim lanterns mounted on the wall. Within a few seconds he has wandered down the full length of it and stopped. The door in front of him is closed and yet the shady, flickering presence trapped behind it is so obviously _there_ that it might as well be wide open. Steeling himself, he turns the ornate handle and pushes it open.

Dark tendrils of an achingly familiar signature lash out at him, stabbing and burning where they make contact with his shields, but he only closes his eyes and lets out a single, steadying breath. When he opens them again, he finds himself locking eyes with a white-haired, steely-eyed man sitting casually behind a rich, hand-carved desk.

There is yet another bloodstain directly in front of the desk. This one looks fresher than the rest. His brain registers this and then quickly dismisses it. Bloodstains, madness, and monsters can wait, because this old man in front of him is so much more important than they are. So much more _relevant._

And very surprised. _Good._

"Qui-gon?" Count Dooku's shocked utterance slices through the silence with little resistance.

The Jedi allows himself a tiny smile, albeit a sad one. "Hello, master."

 _Fifteen minutes, maybe less. Force help me._

* * *

 _If Qui-gon had survived and traveled to Vjun in Yoda's place, what then...? (what-if rendering of Qui-gon being present during the events of_ Dark Rendezvous _)_


	14. Imprint (Dooku and Qui-gon)

It is perhaps the most unusual pairing that the Jedi order has ever produced. For one, there are very few who believed the tall, dark man would even become master to a padawan. _All_ of them knew he would eventually attain the rank of 'master'; that had never been in question.

But the hip-high, lanky boy tottering along at his side presents the picture of a rogue star that has attached itself to a most unwilling planet, bringing light where light had never been welcomed. Little flipper-befooted Qui-gon is a bright contradiction to his ever stern-faced mentor. When his overgrown feet rush ahead of the rest of him, the boy trips and throws out a soft, wrinkle free hand, grasping at the nearest anchor point, fingers curling into the folds of a dark robe that had ventured to numerous mad worlds that would surely have smothered this child to death within seconds of his arrival.

Surprisingly, _impossibly_ , a scarred, calloused, aged hand flicks out and deftly captures the young miscreant by the scruff of his tunic and straightens him once more. " _Patience_ , boy. How many times must I repeat myself?"

The words are clipped, bordering on a soft growl for all the warmth that's in them (there really isn't much), but the child only offers a sheepish grin in return. "Sorry, master."

The stern master merely looks away, glowering.

It is not an unfamiliar sight, Cin muses as he studies his old clan-mate. Even so… there is something slightly off about Yan Dooku. Something off in the _glower._

"Master Dooku, Qui-gon!" he greets when they get closer. "How are the two of you this fine morning?"

Yan's expression merely flattens into one of resignation. He answers with a whispered sigh and a subtle nod.

Qui-gon is fairly bursting with excitement. "Hello, Master Drallig! We're going to the dojo!"

Cin smiles at the boy's enthusiasm and then raises a brow at the dark figure beside him. "A little early for a training bout, isn't it? The sun's barely woken up."

A single, dark, imperious brow ticks up in return as Cin is faced with the Sentinel's signature half-smirk, half-condescending smile. "Nonsense, Cin. You of all people should hardly be arguing the proper time to get in a good hour of training. Besides…" Here the normally eloquent master pauses and his face twitches into a longsuffering, puckered expression. "The boy has already assured me that he has eaten what can only be described as a small _feast_ and will be just fine."

"Already eaten…" Cin frowns, wondering exactly when the child had the time to scarf down so much food in the quarters of a master who regularly awoke in the wee hours of the morning. Yan Dooku would not be one to allow his apprentice such free reign in the kitchen.

But Qui-gon puts his doubts to rest when he leans forward and whispers loudly, "Master drank his special tea last night, so I was able to get up before him."

" _Special_ tea?" Cin echoes, smiling wryly at the scowling master. "Indeed. I see. Well. I suppose I shall leave you two to it, then." After all, any Jedi worth his salt knows when to retreat. "Enjoy your morning."

But the other master lands the parting blow as he pins Cin with his dark, glinting eyes. "Not a _word_ , Cin," he mutters, too quiet for his padawan to hear.

But Cin's smile only grows. "Your boy's a keeper, my friend. Do well by him."

The glower he receives is expected, but there is still something _off_ about it. He doesn't know what that something is until the master turns back towards his apprentice and the two amble off down the hallway in the direction of the dojo, the taller of the two chastising the other in his honey-smooth, edgy baritone.

"I see a lesson in respect is in order."

"Yes, master."

"I warned you, boy."

"I won't tell next time."

"You're missing the point entirely."

"… but Master Drallig won't tell."

"Qui-gon."

And the boy falls silent, because he _does_ understand what Yan is telling him, and Yan knows this and Cin, standing still and watching their retreating backs, knows this as well. And while he is thoroughly amused by the conversation, his attention is focused elsewhere.

He is _watching_ them more than listening to them. Yan moves in a straight, purposeful line in graceful, silent steps as if he owns every square inch of floor that he walks on, but his padawan is all over the place. Young Qui-gon seems to know where a padawan should walk, but he remains two steps behind and to Yan's left for all of a few seconds before he is wandering somewhere new to look at a painting on a wall or stare out of a window, all the while replying to his master's rebukes in a distracted, lighthearted tone. They make an odd pair: a master who clearly knows his place and an apprentice who seems intent on discovering every place but his own.

Cin notices why Yan's glower is different the moment more Jedi appear. Qui-gon, having been a full seven _feet_ to Yan's left and two strides _in front_ of him (and why does Yan, _of all people_ , allow that?) immediately takes note of the new visitors and drifts back to his master, returning to a padawan's proper position. A wandering star returning to its anchor-point.

 _Or not._ Cin blinks, eyes widening just a touch. _No…_

Yan is no anchor-point, not in the traditional Jedi sense since he is most certainly _not_ a traditional sort of Jedi. Though most would look at his mannerisms and speech patterns and commend him for his noble Jedi traditionalism. The man is a master at putting on an act and always has been.

No, this is not a star looking for a planet to attach itself to. Cin has a feeling Qui-gon isn't the type to remain in one place for long. He is, instead, a youthful bright spark that has breathed life into a simmering, yet dying, ember. Both of these Jedi, one very young and one older than he looks, are outliers of sorts. Their fire is _different._ Yan's has always been different, Qui-gon's is different, and so Yan allows the haphazard wandering because he knows what it is. His glower had held a spark of _mischief_ , and that mischief had been _light._ A foreign, yet not entirely unwelcome, light. Qui-gon's light.

Cin frowns at that. This is one rogue star, dimly lit, encouraging a much younger and brighter rogue star to follow it.

The Council might frown upon it too.

Cin isn't sure what to do with it, but true to Qui-gon's words, he keeps his thoughts to himself.


	15. Heels (Rey)

_This is_ _a requested prompt th_ _at I didn't w_ _ant to fill until I'd seen_ The Last Jedi _, because I felt like I didn't have a good feel for Rey. There_ _are slight spoilers_ _ahe_ _ad in this one, but nothing huge. My own t_ _ake on_ _a scene in the movie..._

* * *

Sometimes she fancies herself a real woman. Well, not _real_ as in proper, because who's to say what a proper woman should look like or be? No, not in that sense, but there are times when she wishes she had been born with a Name. Yes, with a capital 'N'. A name that mattered.

Not a name with a little 'n'. A nobody.

Those moments are rare, because upon reflection, she always realizes that she doesn't really want that. She doesn't want the standing, or a title, or a special position on some important planet. She wouldn't know what to do with something like that.

But every now and then she wonders what it would be like to have that. To be looked at and not just glanced over.

"Heels." The word makes her laugh. Chewie looks at her like she's gone crazy, but she only nods at her hairy companion. "Heels. Don't you think all women of standing wear heels? Isn't it a requirement? A qualification of some sort?"

He only grunts in reply before nodding towards the viewport. Most of the window reveals open water in shades that imply severe depth, but towards the left there appears to be a cluster of scraggly islands, tall, jagged, and imposing.

That's where Luke Skywalker has exiled himself. These tiny specks of land out in the middle of literally nowhere. This man with a Name has apparently tried to turn himself into a nobody. He should really know better, she thinks. Men born with Names are born with responsibility. There's no disappearing from _that._ Much better to be born a nobody and have the choice.

Right?

A glance to her right shows that Chewie is looking at her like he's guessed her train of thought and finds it horribly depressing. She frowns at him. "Shut up."

He growls something at her that she can't decipher.

"Whatever."

The larger the islands grow, the harder the knot in her stomach gets. When they finally set the Falcon down, she decides that heels are ridiculous inventions that no Jedi should ever have to suffer wearing. She doubts any Jedi has ever worn them. How on earth could a lady possibly use a lightsaber properly while trying to balance on a pair of stilettos? And she _will_ be a Jedi, or something like one. _Not_ a woman who has to dress up, make inspiring statements, and wear a mask along with her pair of impossibly pointed footwear.

She finds him standing on a cliff, facing away from her. This man with a Name so large that he can't possibly hope to hide. For a moment, she thinks him incredibly stupid. Then he turns around and all she can think is, _heels._

Metaphorically speaking of course, because a man that looks that worn, that haunted, and that rough around the edges would _never_ wear an actual pair of heels. But perhaps he had been trapped by his circumstances just the same.

 _This_ is Luke Skywalker? She stares at him, utterly confused, yet still hopeful. He looks… small. Except for his eyes, which look like they've seen much and want to unsee most of it. His eyes look right. Like the stories describe him.

Other than that, she sees a trapped Jedi who wants to forget. And she suddenly feels a little bad because she's going to force him to remember all of it. Slowly, she takes out the lightsaber and holds it out to him, hoping beyond hope that he'll take it and turn back into the legend that she was sent to find. She didn't come here for a washed-out Jedi who, at some point in his wacky exile, chose to put on a pair of restricting metaphorical heels.

 _Right now you're just a story that inspires,_ she thinks. _I need you to be real!_

He takes the lightsaber and she dares to breath.

Then, with a glare that freezes her solid while simultaneously making her shudder from her feet to her ears, he tosses the sacred weapon over his shoulder where it plummets over the side of the cliff.

Something inside of her shrivels up and attempts to die, but then she steels herself and glares after his receding form. _No._ Luke Skywalker he may be, but she won't be intimidated by this version of the man.

 _I won't let you run from this._

She follows him and bangs on the door of the shoddy hut he's holed himself up in, but he doesn't reply or come out. For the next few days, she follows him around and bangs on his door some more. Luke Skywalker refuses to acknowledge her presence, let alone respond. He doesn't ever speak, though the haunted, slightly wild looks he sometimes graces her with say more than enough.

At some point, on day two or three or maybe it's earlier, she returns to the Falcon and shoots Chewie a pointed, sizzling, and truly _nasty_ look.

"Heels should be outlawed," she declares.

Chewie wisely remains quiet, though he _does_ nod. He understands perfectly and completely agrees with the girl, but she doesn't know this and she doesn't understand enough Shyriiwook for him to attempt to explain. There are many words in his native tongue that mean 'broken' and she wouldn't pick up on the nuanced depth of the one he wants to use.

So he doesn't bother.

Eventually Luke decides to break his silence and they're off and running.

But Rey still can't look at the man without thinking, _Heels._

And Chewie still can't look at the girl without wanting her to simply _understand._


	16. Dignity (Obi-wan, Part 1)

_Part one of a two-part prompt fill. Enjoy!_

* * *

Bant listens to him stumble through a possible explanation as to the connection between him and the Cerasi girl. She knows what it is before he does, which doesn't surprise her. He would never suspect such a thing, Code-follower that he is.

"You loved her."

That shuts him up. He blinks at her then and she expects his face to redden soon after. She expects more stuttering and a swift denial, because love is attachment and attachment is forbidden for Jedi, and he _is_ a Jedi.

But there is no blushing and no stuttering. Suddenly she is the speechless one. Bant stares into soft blue eyes that have grown old in only a few weeks' time, and marvels at the fact that they are growing wet with what are clearly unshed tears.

But Obi doesn't cry. He hates it when others see him cry. He only nods once and looks away, swallowing hard. "I suppose I did."

Bant blinks again. A few times. Then, not knowing what else to do, she scoots closer and hugs him. Normally, he would stiffen up and bear it simply for _her_ sake, but this time he sags slightly and lets her hold him up.

***oo***

Bruck Chun falls, in both senses of the word. He is corrupted first by a man smothered in bitterness and hatred, twisted into a tool and nothing more. Then he falls from the cliff.

 _Their_ cliff. Obi-wan will never think of it as anything else ever again. The Room of a Thousand Fountains will forever be scarred by the memory of a white-haired boy plummeting to his death.

When Qui-gon finds him, he is sobbing quietly. "Obi-wan… it isn't your fault…"

When he is incriminated for Bruck's death and put on trial, he makes no objections, but his master intercedes yet again. "It isn't Obi-wan's fault…"

When they are back at the Temple, away from the courts and away from all other distractions, living or otherwise, Qui-gon tries one more time. "It isn't your fault – "

Obi-wan shakes his head. "It's not that I didn't stop him from falling to the rocks. It's that we even ended up there in the first place."

"Padawan."

"I didn't _see_ him until he was hanging on by just his fingers." He glances at Qui-gon, notices the grieved look in his master's eyes, and then looks away again. "It was just Bruck and Obi-wan at the top. Just two twelve-year-olds trying to make sense of things… and then we did, right before he… fell."

"You didn't kill him, Obi-wan."

"No… but I didn't help him either, and neither did anyone else."

***oo***

Tahl Uvain's forest-colored eyes widen when she opens her door. The young Kenobi boy stands respectfully before her, hands folded into opposite sleeves, face somehow composed despite the turmoil she senses in him. "Obi-wan. What is it, child?"

"Master needs help."

His reply is measured and cautious and she understands it perfectly. Qui-gon is a proud, proud man, and she is grateful that his padawan has the guts to do what he cannot. She is shrugging into her robes even as she asks the boy another question. "What did he do this time?"

The look on the boy's face freezes her in place. This must be truly disastrous. "Nothing. Xanatos killed himself in front of us."

 _Force,_ the kid is still in shock. It's the only explanation she has for how composed he seems. What must Qui-gon be like if his padawan is this messed up? "Okay, Obi-wan. Okay. Let's go."

It is only after she helps her stubborn chosski of a friend that she is allowed to help his equally stubborn padawan. The foolish boy stands firm in the face of her obvious concern. "Help him first, master. Please."

"Obi-wan…" She lets a warning note slip into her voice.

He only offers a tiny, shaky, _impossible_ smile. "I can wait."

***oo***

Padawan Kenobi enters the High Council Chamber bearing the rank of Padawan and leaves it shouldering the weight and responsibility of a newly-appointed Knight. A knight with a padawan of his own.

Well.

Some things deserve the heaviest and lengthiest of sighs and he graces the moment with one of his best. It doesn't take him long to reach his quarters. Jinn/Kenobi. It's what the placard says and he quickly lowers his eyes before entering with a much softer sigh. A shaggy-haired boy greets him from his seat on the floor. Obi-wan doesn't remember what either of them say to each other, only that it takes him a mere two minutes to get Anakin tucked into his bed and even less to throw himself unceremoniously on top of his own.

He sighs into the covers.

 _I will train the boy._

He hadn't given the Council any other option to consider. Before he surrenders to the sweet pull of slumber, he is surprised to discover that he isn't sorry. Neither is he ashamed.

***oo***

"Now remember, Anakin, where are you supposed to walk?"

"You don't have to remind me _every_ time."

Obi-wan tosses a dubious look at his young charge. "Perhaps I'll stop reminding you when you decide to _remember_."

Anakin frowns, the expression drawing his brows together and causing his blue eyes to narrow. On such a boyish face, it is almost cute, but Obi-wan only ever mentions that when the padawan decides to turn discussions into the most irritating of arguments. "I _know_ where I'm supposed to walk."

Obi-wan turns away so that the boy doesn't catch his smirk. "Very well. Feel free to demonstrate your knowledge on our way to the cafeteria."

It is hardly unexpected when Anakin deems this advice a complete waste of breath. While Obi-wan does his best I-am-a-calm-and-collected-and-completely-under-control-of-my-horrendously-unruly-padawan-Jedi-master impression, his horrendously unruly padawan buzzes around the corridors with all of the restraint of a krayt dragon in search of a mate. The young knight is entirely aware that every last Jedi they pass is throwing scandalized glances in _his_ direction, but he serenely ignores them.

When they reach the cafeteria, Anakin's face lights up with delight. "Master they made my favorite dessert!"

Obi-wan nods. "Mm, yes. I see that. Unfortunately, it only contains sugar and nothing else. You'll burn right through that."

"… um, what?"

He only nods again, surveying the limited buffet. His eyes latch onto a tray fully loaded with rolls that are speckled with greenish lumps. Feeling entirely too pleased with himself, Obi-wan orders a plate of four of them and a glass of milk. "Here. Since you've decided to run around like a one-man herd of blitzed banthas instead of maintaining control of yourself like a proper Jedi padawan, you obviously need something that will replenish your energy. These have plenty of carbs and I'm sure whatever vegetable they've stuffed in them has some good nutrients as well."

Anakin stares at him in muted horror. "But I don't _like_ these."

Obi-wan shrugs. "Certain hobbies require sacrifices or, in this case, they can carry _consequences_. Besides, that's what the large glass of milk is for."

The adorable frown returns, but it has no effect whatsoever on the young master. He only smirks as he orders something much tastier than bland veggie rolls. "You're quite cute when you do that."

***oo***

"Well, congratulations, I suppose."

Garen wears the cocky, sarcastic grin that he reserves only for this particular man. "Gee thanks, Master Kenobi. Your exuberance at my wonderful achievement leaves me _soo_ uplifted."

Obi-wan frowns. "Just _be careful,_ you arrogant twit."

"I _will_ , you stunted wookiee. Seriously. What's with the hair and the beard and just… all of _this._ " The taller Jedi gestures vaguely at his friend's face with a semi-disgusted look.

Obi-wan smirks, not even remotely offended. "Seriously, Garen. I am happy for you, but I'll still worry."

"Force, Kenobi, you sound so _old_ ," the newly-graduated ace says, rolling his eyes. "I'll be fine… and _no,_ " he asserts, cutting the pessimistic fool off before he can say it. "There will be no mention of any _bad feelings_ around me, understand? Any pilot worth his salt can't afford to be thinking about such things."

Obi-wan wisely remains silent, but his expected smirk is tinged with just a _hint_ of irritation.

They both know _his_ bad feelings are nothing to laugh at.

***oo***

It is well into evening when Knight Kenobi catches Cin right as he's closing the Academy dojo. "Obi-wan! What brings you here this hour?" The young knight looks serious and Cin stops what he's doing to give the man his full attention.

"Master, I have a favor to ask, if you're willing."

Cin nods, smiling a little. "Of course."

"I would like some tutoring in Soresu. I've begun studying it on my own, but there are always things that are learned best from an observer or a teacher…"

"Yes, yes, but why Soresu?" Cin is confused. "You've mastered Ataru. Surely some limited Soresu would complement it well, but you're already proficient in that as it is…"

"I intend to master it, Master Drallig," Kenobi says, voice firm and unyielding. "I believe Ataru incorporated into Soresu would better serve my purposes. The opposite lends itself to recklessness…"

Cin cocks his head to the side, smiling a little. "From a certain point of view, and yet some would say it leads to swift victories."

Kenobi's answering smile is a tad haunted _._ "Or unnecessary defeats."

Both smiles disappear and Cin is left studying the other man with newfound respect. "What, if I may ask, is your purpose for this change?"

The haunted edge dims a little as Kenobi's eyes are suddenly lit with a fire that Cin had thought dead at Qui-gon's funeral. "I have a padawan and I intend to train him, see him knighted, and eventually serve side by side with him as an equal."

The word _brother_ flashes into Cin's mind and he smiles inwardly.

"Victory is an honorable goal that I still intend to keep," the knight continues. "Especially in service to the Light, but for the sake of my padawan, I also intend to _survive._ "

***oo***

The Senator falls from the gunship, hits the sand and rolls. Obi-wan sees it, as does the young man standing close by. He can tell she'll be fine. Maybe a bit bruised and achy, but fine nonetheless.

"Put the ship down!"

The cry catches him off guard and it takes him a moment to react. When he looks at Anakin's face, his gut twists and he suddenly hates himself for what he has to say. "Don't let your personal feelings get in the way!"

Right?

 _Right?_

The argument continues for a short minute. Long enough for Obi-wan to convince the youth that Padme would have continued had their positions been reversed. Long enough for him to see what Senator Amidala is beginning to mean to this young man. Long enough for Obi-wan to remember another beautiful woman hiding tenacious stubbornness beneath an elegant, yet sharp-witted disposition. One he would have left the Order for had she only asked.

He still would, if it came down to it.

Anakin looks betrayed and he has to turn away.

 _I'm sorry, padawan._

***oo***

The Count defeats them both. Effortlessly. Sure, he puts up a brief fight and Anakin lasts maybe half a minute longer, but in the end they both lie in a pathetic pile of limbs on the ground. Only seven and a half, to be precise. The rest of his padawan's arm is somewhere else.

 _Is this it?_

Master Yoda arrives and they both survive. While Anakin is recovering in the Healer's Ward, Obi-wan makes his way to the Academy dojo. Luckily, the younglings are in the middle of a basic round of Shii-Cho katas and Obi-wan takes the opportunity to politely catch Cin's attention. The battlemaster walks over with a question on his face.

Obi-wan skewers him with a determined look. "I'm not good enough yet."

It takes only a second for the older man to catch up. "Obi-wan… you've mastered the form already. What more would you like me to –"

"With _respect_ , master," Obi-wan says, "gaining mastery does not mean I am without flaws."

Cin snorts at this. He eyes the knight in front of him. "No one is ever without flaws no matter how hard or how long they work at something. This applies to everyone and everything." When Obi-wan says nothing, but just continues to stare, Cin sighs. "What happened?"

The answer he receives is short, but sufficient. "Dooku."

A resigned, understanding look replaces Cin's exasperation and he nods. "I see."

Obi-wan manages to convince the man to continue to provide counsel and critique where his bladework is concerned, but when he leaves, it's with a slight shake of the head and a stutter in his step. Alone in the corridor once more, he takes a moment to steady himself against the wall.

 _I see_ , he'd said.

 _Do you?_ He'd wanted to ask and almost had, but he hadn't wanted to scare the younglings. News of Geonosis had yet to reach Cin, it seemed.

 _Do you see what he's done? What he's started? Who he's become?_

It is only a week later that Obi-wan receives orders to be tested for something called PTSD. Anakin is told to come too. His padawan laughs it off in a show of false bravado.

Obi-wan wants to laugh too, but for an entirely different reason. They are shown into separate rooms and when the healer comes in to begin her assessment, he looks her directly in the eyes and gives her a small smile. "I can save you the time, if you'd like."

She quirks a brow at him and shoots him a stern frown. "Master Kenobi, do not attempt to dissuade me from completing this assessment. Not only is it required, but most of the Jedi who were present on Geonosis have tested positive –"

Obi-wan closes his eyes and rubs his temples. "I've had nightmares since I was twelve, I don't sleep much, my reflexes have been honed to an unusual degree, and most anyone who knows me at all will tell you that I only have a sense of humor to deter what would surely be a horrid case of depression." When the resulting silence lasts longer than usual, he opens his eyes. The healer is staring at him with wide eyes. He offers her a sideways, off-kilter smile. "As I said, let's not waste time."

This jolts her into action. "Right. Okay. Well, thank you for your honesty, Master Kenobi." She clears her throat and reaches for a datapad, busying herself with filling out the necessary documentation. Frowning, she pauses. "Do you not take medications to help you sleep, and why is there no record of a visit to the mind-healers?"

At this, Obi-wan's expression turns grim and his eyes flash with disapproval. "I've managed just fine for some time, now. One more incident isn't going to change that."

The healer displays her disagreement through the narrowing of her eyes and the ways she squares herself up. "I would strongly recommend –"

"I'm sure you would." His voice has grown clipped and he simply doesn't care. "The Force is my ally, and it is enough."

Despite her obvious objection to his stubbornness, she is a Jedi and she has nothing to say to that.

He is a Jedi too, but she doesn't need to know that Jedi mantras and supposed truths like the one he just uttered have a gazillion flaws. He would know. He's had almost two decades to think them over.

 _Yes, I suffer from tragic experiences. Who doesn't? And yet…_

"Master? I tested positive. Is something wrong with me?"

He pins Anakin in place with his eyes. "There are plenty of things wrong with the entire galaxy, Anakin. Neither you nor I are an exception. What matters is how we choose to deal with what's wrong."

His padawan nods. "So those nights when we can't sleep…"

Obi-wan smiles at the fact that the boy knows his own master sleeps about as well as he does. "Meditation comes first. Tea and caf come second, and then maybe I'll get the cards out."

Anakin's grin is tinged with relief and oozing with mischief. "Sabacc isn't a proper _Jedi_ practice, master."

"No, it's not," Obi-wan agrees. "So let's not speak of it in public."

"Okay."

Yes. Okay.

 _Things will be okay._


	17. Defenestration (Mace Windu)

Qui-gon Jinn stands in the middle of their venerable circle with a taunt glinting in his eyes and the tiniest of smirks twisting his lips. The towering nuisance opens his mouth to answer Yoda's command ( _Explain yourself_ ).

Only a formality, really. It's a waste of time to have the barve answer anything. Mace doesn't hear what Qui-gon says. All he hears are dozens of media members demanding explanations and justifications none of them can honestly give (though he knows he'll have to come up with something). Not to mention the monetary fallout that is sure to follow in the next few hours' time.

In his head, this scenario plays out very differently.

Qui-gon Jinn enters the chamber with a taunt in his eyes and the tiniest of smirks twisting his lips. Before the towering nuisance comes to a halt, Mace seizes him with a clench of his fist and throws him through a window. No muss, no fuss.

* * *

 _Shout out to_ Padawan Aneiki R'hyvar _for the hilarious prompt! (I will attempt to fill the rest of the prompt requests as the muse strikes)_


	18. Defenestration (Dooku)

His reputation is as carefully built as anyone else's. Always a gentleman, honorable in combat, sophisticated in politics, suave in manner, elegant and refined in appearance; these are traits he finds admirable and so he strives to maintain them in himself.

Nevertheless, there are _always_ exceptions.

Fortunately this one does not have an audience.

"I suppose you expect me to 'appreciate the gesture' or some other such nonsense," he drawls, glaring down past his crossed arms to the wrinkly green Jedi standing just outside of his door.

"Hmph," Yoda grunts as he lifts the steaming bowl just a touch higher. "Accept it, you should. Very empty, your cupboards are."

Blast dignity. Yan releases a short groan and quickly massages his throbbing temples before stepping to the side and gesturing towards his admittedly sparse living quarters. "I would _appreciate_ you not snooping through my apartment while I am gone. It's a waste of time as it is, since I am typically away for months at a time."

Yoda remains where he is and jiggles the bowl.

Yan sighs and stretches a hand down to accept the steaming, foul-smelling offering. "Thank you, master," he intones.

The little gnome huffs once more before hobbling into his domain. "Nutritious, it is, and easy on the stomach."

Yan very much doubts that, though he is confident that his battle-tested stomach could handle it if he decides to try. "To which species' digestive system are you referring?" he quips. While Yoda wanders towards his small dining table, Yan crosses the cozy space and opens the balcony door. He breathes in the fresh air with a grateful smile.

"Make tea, I will," Yoda continues, blatantly ignoring the remark. "Eat that while it's hot, you should, and – " Yan glances over, holding the bowl through the door so that the smell stays outside. Yoda is staring at a small box on the counter with a frown.

Yan smirks. "I wasn't expecting guests," he explains. "So I broke habit and bought some takeout. I don't mean to offend, but – " Here he pauses and steps outside to glance over the balcony rail. The Temple steps are a long ways down and host a spattering of Jedi. Squinting just barely, he thinks he can make out a man tall enough, lanky enough, and hairy enough to be his former padawan (no matter if it isn't). With a brief second glance, he tosses the bowl's contents over the rail, not bothering to see if he hit his target before reentering his rooms.

"I don't like your stew," he finishes.

Yoda gives him a long once-over and then resumes his slow hobble around the kitchen. "Very immature, you have become."

"Nonsense. I merely attempted to regift it to someone who will enjoy it."

There is a brief surge of laughter in the Force as Yoda glances at him. "Due back any time, Qui-gon is."

"Mmm," Yan smirks. "Yes."


	19. One (Kit Fisto)

Kit's grin is either off-putting or amusing depending on who stands across from him. Behind the grin, he is either highly amused and enjoying himself or… highly amused and enjoying himself. Granted, one of the two carries a _heavier_ sort of joy. Joy tinged with muted anger at the messed up chaos that reality often finds itself in.

Every single Jedi knows a bit of Shii-cho. The younglings learn it first since it emphasizes simplicity and fundamentals. Train the legs to move correctly, train the arms to move with the legs, train the wrists to become flexible and loose in a firm sort of way. Learn the angles, learn body targets, learn basic dueling tactics. It's all there.

Kit has refined this simplicity to an unusual degree and has instead turned it into a sort of patterned randomness. Patterned because _he_ knows exactly what he's going to do next. Random because no one else has a clue. It's always different.

So when Obi-wan watches the Nautolan Jedi duel the JK droid for the first time, he doesn't even bother to try and guess Kit's strategy. He's only focused on tracking the green blade that's moving impossibly fast in swift, _simple_ , effective strikes and trying to figure out whether this droid is sentient in some way. Because those tentacles have unexpectedly plunged beneath the dirt and are more than likely scurrying towards a place beneath the Jedi's dancing feet, and how would a droid be capable of trying something so unexpected?

Obi-wan's gut churns when they reappear, stabbing towards Kit's ankles like four angry sand adders. Kit's slight grin actually _grows_ as he briefly retracts his blade to stab down at the offending bits of metal. Obi-wan would have flipped out of range. He's certain his apprentice would have annihilated the tentacles while cursing them out in Huttese. Master Yoda would have flipped out of range as well. Mace wouldn't have let the things get close.

Kit chooses to take a step deeper into the droid's metaphorical (or literal) jaws. Into the belly of the beast, as it were. Towards this strange, cold killer of a droid that's far more dangerous than its predecessors. Apparently, the only way to counter an unpredictable foe is with an equal, or possibly _greater_ , dose of unpredictability.

When the JK ends up stabbing itself to death in a vain ( _panicked?_ ) attempt to kill Kit, the Jedi lets it succumb with a smile that is now both pleased and thoughtful. As if he'd never been troubled at all.

Which he isn't. Kit lives a simple life. Fluid, adaptable, and determined. "Simplicity has a distinct advantage," he tells whoever asks. "One no longer has to think, and that's when a person can begin to _play._ "

* * *

 _This scene is borrowed from_ The Cestus Deception (it's a great read!)


	20. Two (Dooku)

"There is a purpose to what I do," Master Dooku says. "A very _specific_ purpose. I do what I do, because I have the skill, the temperament, the resolve, the knowledge, and the diligence to do it. You obviously know this, or I wouldn't constantly be sent into the outer reaches of space where I can operate without constant supervision. In other words, you _trust_ me. So when I tell you that something _dangerous_ , something that reeks of _darkness_ , is about to unleash itself on our so very obviously ignorant Order, why will you not believe me?"

Dooku is standing in the middle of the Council chamber glaring into the eyes of every sitting member without the slightest hint of submission. He presents an imposing figure in his dark robes, polished boots and shadowy Force-presence. Intelligent eyes glint with barely subdued frustration beneath steel-peppered brows. Yoda observes all of this with a growing sense of dread. His former student has long labored as a chaser and searcher of the darker threats in their galaxy. The ancient master does not doubt the man's words.

He _does_ doubt the man's resolve. Especially once Dooku hears their decision. "Be too hasty, we must not. Acknowledge your warnings, we do, and heed them, we will," he says, green eyes narrowing when the Sentinel turns stormy eyes his way. "But promote violence, we will _not_. An Order of peace, we are. Defend the Republic, we _will_ , but create a military we will _not._ "

Something shifts in Dooku then, a subtle shift that very few notice. Yoda senses finality, and not in a good way. Dooku's mouth ticks up in the tiniest and most humorless of smiles. "You misunderstand me, but I suppose that is to be expected. I don't know why I keep trying." The smile disappears, and he huffs out a short, uncharacteristic sigh. "I _do_ apologize for wasting your time, _masters_." The last word is neither subtle nor elegant, and it most certainly is not respectful. It's a whipcord flick of a strike that catches them by surprise.

It shouldn't. This man is different and has always been different. Complex, brilliant, noble, private, and driven by a singular desire to rid the galaxy of evil. Ironic, since most would not look at Dooku as a very _light_ individual. Not by Jedi standards, at least.

His philosophy of the Force is close to heresy, but he is _very_ good at what he does, so they choose to ignore this. Perhaps it is to their detriment.

"Makashi?" Yoda had echoed when a much younger Dooku had chosen his form.

"It's focused, disciplined, and precise."

The youth had grown to master the form to an impressive degree. A _very_ impressive degree. Dooku is now the _embodiment_ of Makashi: an ever present potential threat that seems to weigh a person in a single glance, pinpoint every weakness, and then strike to devastating effect.

When he addresses them as "masters", Dooku means anything but, and he obviously doesn't care. The tall Jedi pivots smartly and moves silently towards the exit.

"Finished, we are _not,_ " Yoda practically growls. "Permission to leave, you do not have."

Dooku stops and turns back in a single, fluid motion. There is fury in his eyes now. "Permission to leave, I do not need," he snaps back. "You are all of you _fools_ , and you will _suffer_ for it. That is my _final_ warning."

Days later, he is gone.

Months later, the semblance of peace that had been present throughout the galaxy is gone with him. When he reappears on Geonosis, Yoda is not surprised. His old padawan had always had a talent for manipulation. The man just seemed to _get_ it. All of it.

What he is only just now realizing is how far the fallen Jedi's reach extends. He fears the galaxy is about to come crashing down. Dooku's fingers cease to spit lightning and he flicks his wrist, igniting a deadly, crimson blade and holding it steady out to his side. _Do you feel balanced_ , _master?_

They duel. Yoda does his best just to stay alive and keep the other two alive as well. His mind is spinning, struggling to grasp what, exactly, the Count has managed to accomplish. Dooku's blade parries his own and jabs through his defenses with surprising ease.

Yoda dances just out of reach.

The three of them survive, but Yoda thinks it's only because Dooku decides to let them.

As the war drags on, the Count's (Sith's, former _Jedi's_ ) fingerprints are literally everywhere. He's convinced entire sectors of worlds to fall in line with the Separatist cause. He's brokered trade agreements, enlisted bounty hunters, murdered Jedi and directed armies. He's also eluded capture again and again and again.

Jabbing, cutting, parrying when needed, dancing around whichever opponent decides to test his mettle. Makashi at its very finest.

"Surrender; you will be given no further chance." Kenobi's gaze is confident. His words are fully committed.

The Count doesn't even bother to smile. He casually, almost lazily, plucks his lightsaber from his belt. "Unless one of you happens to be carrying Yoda in his pocket, I hardly think I shall need one," he quips. The words are a subtle warning and up until then the statement would have been true.

Yoda thinks his old friend might have appreciated the irony in the situation. Skywalker had become a living hammer in the Force, able to destroy even the most brilliant and persistent of duelists. Dooku falls, and yet the man somehow manages a victory even in death.

Without Dooku's expansive and, admittedly, _controlling_ influence, the galaxy dissolves into chaos.


	21. Three (Obi-wan)

_This ch_ _apter is sh_ _ameless_ _admir_ _ation on my p_ _art for_ _a ch_ _ar_ _acter th_ _at will forever rem_ _ain_ _at the top of my list of f_ _avorites, so I_ _apologize if this is borderline turning Obi-w_ _an into some undefe_ _at_ _able superhum_ _an, bec_ _ause he's not. This is more so_ _an_ _attempt_ _at_ _a ch_ _ar_ _acter study into why he w_ _as_ _able to endure for so long. I_ _also find it interesting th_ _at he h_ _ad_ _a h_ _and in defe_ _ating_ _almost every notable Sith of_ _his er_ _a (and Grievous), including Sidious, so th_ _at's why this ch_ _apter is f_ _airly lengthy. Soresu is sort of_ _a "long g_ _ame" form_ _anyw_ _ay, so I suppose it should be a long chapter. ;-) Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

" _Not a master._ The _master._ "

It might be somewhat audacious and completely ridiculous to state that there is but one master of a form of lightsaber combat among thousands of Jedi who have lived throughout the Order's long and vaunted history. Mace was certainly audacious enough, but he was not ridiculous. He wasn't an _idiot_.

Sidious never heard the Korun master say the words, but he would have adamantly agreed with him. "Take him to the ship," he commands the droids. The Sith watches, enraged and disgusted, as they peel Vader from Mustafar's black shores and transfer him to the ship.

Kenobi is a light-spawned thorn in his side and if Vader weren't still breathing he would be tearing after the Jedi himself. The fool had bested and thwarted and survived his plans and attacks for long enough. Unfortunately, Sidious admits, he has to set Kenobi aside for the time being. He wagers the coward is running and hiding as it is, too weak and emotionally compromised to face the gravity of his failures.

But he hates the man. Oh does he _hate_ him. The Jedi will eventually have to be hunted down and _crushed_. Sidious has had more than enough of Kenobi dismantling his apprentices.

***oo***

Maul demolishes Soresu practitioners. He finds them weak, pathetic, and far too reluctant to kill their enemies. It is laughably easy to carve straight through their firm parries and passive stances and into their guts, their hearts, their legs, wherever his blade happens to reach. He's intimidating, he's incredibly strong, and he reeks of the dark. He knows this and so he doesn't even have to try to play head games. Maul only has to glare, growl some insults, unleash his hatred for all things living, attack without restraint and he has them bested within moments.

Kenobi is a different beast than the others. Maul remembers being bisected. That hadn't been a calm, defensive-minded padawan that he'd faced. That had been personal anger and uncontrolled desperation and wide, sweeping blows. When he meets Kenobi again, nothing seems to have changed (though he's heard rumors that the fire-headed Jedi is as dangerous a Soresu practitioner as they come).

Maul almost owns the man. He gets so close.

When he meets Kenobi a third time, he wonders at the sanity behind these rumors. _Nothing_ has changed. The Jedi is still aggressive, still delivering wide, sweeping blows, and wielding two weapons with a dexterity Maul has seen in very few outside of himself. Whatever Kenobi uses, Maul wouldn't call it _Soresu_ (though he has to admit that he hadn't come _close_ to touching the man).

When he meets a much older Kenobi, he finally understands.

The Tatooine suns are sleeping, the stars are bright and absolutely brilliant, and Maul lies dying in Kenobi's arms, gutted by the lightsaber held in one of the Jedi's hands. He's baffled by the gentle embrace of his enemy, the sorrow in the man's eyes, the total lack of satisfaction.

" _Look what I have risen above."_

Maul takes a final, hitching breath and then relaxes. It's enough of a last moment for him to realize that the only darkness near to them is that which he brought himself and that the man sharing this moment with him remains untouched and drenched in the Force's light in spite of him and everything else.

***oo***

Grievous is trained to kill Jedi. He's a terror during the Clone Wars. The embodiment of what children know to fear at night: a creature large, clunky, impossibly swift, and glaring with yellow-rimmed eyes. The stuff of nightmares.

He kills many Jedi during the course of the war. The trophies hanging in his cloak are proof of that and his skill only grows because of it. The Sith Lord, Tyranus, trains him well, but it is the battles that perfect his skill. It seems the Jedi Order doesn't understand that for every warrior they throw at him, they only waste another life while he grows more knowledgeable in their arts.

But there is one that eludes him. They meet time and time again, but neither is able to get the upper hand and this frustrates Grievous like nothing else.

"Kenobi," he growls, glaring.

"General," the fool responds, smirking.

It should be easy. At least that's what he thinks, but he returns to Tyranus time and again with the same accusation: "Do _not_ lie to me!" Of course he always gets severely punished for that, but it never stops him from venting. The Sith continues to insist the Jedi uses Soresu and even though Grievous does his best to convince the man otherwise, it's to no avail. The Count always says the same thing: "It may look different than the rest, but Soresu is _his_ form."

His. _His._ As if Kenobi owns it. HA!

Tyranus is a blasted _idiot_ as far as Grievous is concerned, but he grudgingly begins to study his nemesis in the following months.

"Kenobi," he growls, glaring (but observing now, too).

"General," the fool responds, glaring back (now _that's_ new).

He begins to see it, this hybrid of forms that Kenobi calls _Soresu_. It's a mix, certainly, but a lot of Jedi use hybrids. Kenobi's mix of forms is no different, really (though his defensive technique is the equivalent of a kriffing _wall_ ). What _is_ different lies outside of the man's chosen style.

Kenobi is a full-fledged chatterbox. The fool is _always_ talking. Without fail. During the entirety of almost every duel. The Jedi is constantly toying with Grievous' loyalties and casting doubts where there shouldn't be any. He always offers surrender as a course of action. Grievous never accepts, but still the Jedi continues to leave the option on the table.

In the end, Grievous glares at Kenobi as always and Kenobi smiles back. The man is penned in and outnumbered by what might as well be a million to one, but Grievous knows those facts won't deter him a bit. "Don't tell me, let me guess: this is the part where you give me the chance to surrender."

"It can be."

 _Of course_. He doesn't understand why the fool continues to try, but he's decided it's just a part of who the man is. A part of _Soresu_ , and Kenobi _is_ Soresu. There is no other Jedi whom he has fought that consistently maintains an openness to peaceful surrender. He used to think it laughable.

"Kill him," he orders.

But _of course_ his massive droid army can't manage to even graze the puny Jedi. Within minutes, his droids have shot each other half to pieces and Kenobi is standing in front of him once more with that bland smile still firmly in place. "My offer is still open."

Yes, he knows. "Do you believe that I would surrender to you _now_?" Really? After all this time and after all of their many duels?

Kenobi nods. "I am still willing to take you alive. So far no one has been hurt."

The offer is still on the table, but then Kenobi's army shows up and Grievous takes a moment to survey this new situation. When he turns back to the Jedi, his mind is made up. This will be it. He wants to see what Soresu is truly made of, if this man before him is actually willing and able to kill him if given the chance. "To the death, then."

The Jedi sighs. "If you insist."

Suddenly, this offer that has been on the table for _months_ is retracted. Gone. _Poof!_ Just like that. Grievous blinks, thrown. Kenobi is apparently _very_ willing.

But is he able?

If Grievous could smile, he would. He attacks instead and finds that Kenobi's hybrid form is gone. What the man uses now is pure defense. Parries, blocks, angles, a flick here, a shift there. The Jedi stays on a single line and doesn't deviate, ducking and weaving and in constant motion while his blade becomes an energy-infused _pest._ Grievous throws everything at him. Every one of his four weapons is doing something different and traveling at speeds even a Jedi should have trouble tracking and yet…

He can't hit him. Kenobi remains unscathed, untouched, undeterred, undefeated.

Grievous ups his speed only to find himself suddenly a limb short. The bland, uninterested look remains on Kenobi's face, but there's fire in those eyes now. A few seconds later, Grievous is caught in the hold of an invisible fist and flung away like a ragdoll. He decides that retreat is a wonderful option at this point, but the Jedi nuisance manages to follow him.

In the end, Grievous is killed not by a lightsaber, but by a bolt to the chest.

"So uncivilized," Kenobi mutters, disgusted. He would have preferred the general surrender.

***oo***

Kenobi cannot beat Dooku no matter how hard he tries, but it only takes one engagement for him to realize this. Dooku knows the Jedi is smarter than average, but he never expected the man to resign himself to the role of _defensive shield_ so quickly. Their duel on Geonosis had been pathetically short and really should have ended in the deaths of both Kenobi and Skywalker.

Every subsequent duel sees Kenobi reduced to the role of pesky sidekick to Skywalker's blunt-force offensives. The effectiveness of this strategy (as well as the _why_ resting at its heart) slips beneath his notice until the three of them meet for the final time above Coruscant. It is all too easy to set Skywalker's blood to boiling with a few well-placed barbs aimed at his beloved senator's wellbeing, but Kenobi's signature is a flood of light-drenched calm. This utter stillness is belied by the determined fire in the man's eyes. "Surrender, Dooku. You will be given no further chance."

It's as clear of an ultimatum as he's heard in some time, especially from a Jedi. He doesn't bother to smile. "Unless one of you is carrying Yoda in his pocket, I hardly think I shall need one," he quips. Then the three of them are moving. It becomes a dance that he easily leads, a clumsy outing by the two Jedi and what will soon be a definitive rout by the Count himself.

Until Kenobi smirks in his face, backflips out of reach, and leaves his protégé diving straight at Dooku with a driving blade reaching for his heart. He barely escapes and decides it is time to stop messing around. When he has Kenobi alone in front of him again, he attacks the man with the intent of driving him into another acrobatic retreat so that he can cleave him open from sternum to stomach. The man surely can't walk away from _that._

But his plan falls flat. Flatter than flat. All of his precision strikes are flicked aside like so many gnats and Kenobi stands unmoving, fiery eyes staring directly at the Count's face. It is then that Dooku realizes that while Kenobi will never be able to defeat him, neither will he himself be able to kill Kenobi. Not anymore. Not with a lightsaber. That opportunity was wasted long ago. Dooku suddenly thinks he's made a terrible mistake.

In the end, he kneels on the ship's cold floor with two lightsabers crossed at his throat wondering why he decided to knock Skywalker's master out of the fight. _Idiot_ , he chastises himself.

He'd been too blind to realize that the man had become more than just Skywalker's defense in a duel and on a battlefield. He'd been the boy's shield against the dark and, whether intentionally or not, Dooku's shield against Skywalker.

Against Sidious.

"Kill him."

Dooku stares up into death's face and goes numb with embarrassment, shame, loathing, grudging admiration… regret. He almost wishes he could have known Kenobi as an acquaintance at the very least.

 _Surrender. You will be given no further chance._

Had the man lied? Dooku is beginning to think so, because the Skywalker whelp _hates_ him. That much is obvious. Surely if he'd left Kenobi conscious, the man wouldn't have let things go quite this –

***oo***

Ventress and Vader lend credence to Master Windu's bold claim (here is where Kenobi is _different_ ).

Soresu is nothing if not patient. Hopeful. Built for the long game. In its purest form, it refuses to kill, but even Kenobi understands there are limits and points of no return. There are moments in which he cannot let servants of the dark escape again. Moments in which the Light _must_ have ultimate victory.

And he serves the Light.

It is in the cold, bleak, black dungeons of Jabiim's hell that the darkness sets its fate in stone, brings Kenobi's most powerful demons to life so that he can face them and overcome them. Ventress had intended to break him, rend his soul to pieces and reshape him into an empty shell that would follow orders. That would do _what she wanted_ him to do. That would stop _pestering_ her. The Sith mask tears at his mind and rips apart his strongest fortresses to get at the nightmares within: his hatred for Maul, his guilt for his master's death, Cerasi's death, Siri's death, Bruck's death, the fear that he'll fail Anakin in the end, whatever that end is…

He is not the same after Jabiim. Everyone notes the changes. Perpetual exhaustion, more given to emotions, prone to intense flashbacks, twice as many bad feelings and so on and so forth, but there are other more striking changes. Tighter, smoother, deadlier, more precise bladework. Laughter that actually carries _joy_ and not just its shallow, flakier twin. A solid stance on the battlefield that's different from mere confidence and tells his enemies to _not try it_. The smirk that follows and says exactly the opposite: _Try me. I dare you._

Ventress never tries again. She notices the changes too and recognizes something that the Dark simply cannot defeat. He'd found something beneath that mask that he shouldn't have been able to find. It is not long before she breaks her allegiance to the Sith and becomes a woman less black, less angry and more gray and cynical. She will never be a Lightsider, but she doesn't have to be.

Kenobi meets Ventress again. She lends him one of her blades so that he can defend himself against the two horned monsters that seek to do what she could not. They fail as well. When they are in the escape pod together, silent and licking their wounds, Kenobi studies the stars and decides to break the silence. "I owe you a thank you."

She blinks. "What?"

The Jedi doesn't look at her, but she catches his reflection in the star-speckled glass. There's a tiny smile on his face. "When you captured me I was forced to deal with some things I hadn't taken the time to deal with yet."

Ventress gives him the same look she'd given Durge the first time she'd met the misshapen mutant. "You're thanking me for _that_?" She wonders if he's truly lost it.

"The Force willed it." He closes his eyes, leans back and sighs. "I will always bear the scars, Ventress. That mask is… effective. Reveals the darkness for what it is."

She sits transfixed. "Which is?"

"Nasty. Tempting. Strong," here he winces. "Consuming. But the Light is _good._ Better. I _will not fall._ I _cannot._ " The grimace turns into another unexpected smile. " _You_ made sure of that, and for _that_ I owe you a thank you."

Then he spins in the seat and drills her with his unswollen eye. There's a spark in it, something ridiculously pure and _light_ and it sets her spine to tingling. For the first time since she'd been a padawan to Ky Narec, since her beloved master had died, she feels the Force's light touch her and _stay._

"As for the rest of that miserable experience," he murmurs, lips now twitching in the beginnings of a full-fledged grin, "I forgive you."

Most mistake Soresu as non-aggressive and, thus, the ultimate expression of what a Jedi is meant to be. And it is true, in as much as it becomes the popular opinion of the masses: Kenobi is the ultimate Jedi. He negotiates before he fights. He prefers defense to offense, kindness to scathing rebukes. He seeks to fix rather than destroy. He is a shield where others, namely his supposedly fearless protégé, are a double-edged sword.

And yet…

The form's namesake is a leech with wings. They call it a Mynock, this creature that leeches power from frigates, destroyers, shuttles, and any other ship it can attach itself to. There is not much to be done about Mynocks. They survive where most cannot, in space's vacuum where it's mostly cold, mostly void, and very quiet. A quiet broken only by explosions and heat traveling fast enough to _twang_ off molecules resting much too far apart. Many a ship has been handicapped and left powerless and adrift by a single Mynock left undiscovered until too late.

Soresu, if its namesake is to be represented well, is aggressive as all get out. It absorbs, it resists, it deflects, it evades, it _appears_ non-aggressive.

Most only notice in hindsight, when it's _too late_ , how effectively Kenobi has crippled them. Those that have been defeated in the way that he intends, in the way that the Force desires, do not consider themselves crippled at all.

Soresu is patient. It is hopeful. It endures longer than most.

But its greatest weapon is compassion: to suck out the slimy blackness, absorb it, and give something entirely different and much more powerful _back._ There is an exchange that happens when a Soresu practitioner becomes a true master.

Ventress and Vader are proof of this exchange. Ventress' dismissal of the Dark brings him joy in life.

Anakin Skywalker, _Darth Vader_ , only ever brings him sorrow during his living years.

It is on the heated, sulfur-thick, blackened plains of Mustafar's hell that one of the Dark's most powerful servants is left in pieces, but alive. There are no witnesses to this duel between brothers, this clash between Dark ( _nasty, tempting, strong, consuming_ ) and Light. If there had been an audience and a betting pool, not many would have bet on the Jedi.

But Light is _good_ , and it is _better_. Kenobi leaves with a tear-stained face, two ash-smudged sabers, and a child that becomes the better half of Soresu's exchange. He becomes a hermit. Just a tiny man in a sprawling dune sea on a planet located in a dastardly part of space. There is not much to be done but think, eat, sleep, brood, and waste away.

But still he hopes, waiting for the opportunity to present itself. It eventually does and it warms his old and weary heart to see Anakin's boy again, grown and uncorrupted by politics, wars, or a restricting Code. It is not long after that he meets Vader again. Unlike with Ventress, Vader ( _Anakin_ ) is the monster. The Sith Lord is a black storm in the Force, rife with deep wells of power, shot through with hatred, and somehow able to unleash all of it with frightening precision.

Kenobi loses a step, trembles briefly, and then resets. Again, there are no witnesses, at least not until the very end. There is no one to proclaim that visibly it looks very different. Kenobi is old, frail, and not what he used to be. He appears to lose more than a single step, every clash of their blades sets his entire _body_ vibrating, and there doesn't seem to be an opportunity for him to reset.

But in the end, when there are, in fact, witnesses, Kenobi glances at Luke and smiles at Anakin. He straightens his blade, closes his eyes, and gives Anakin what he _knows_ will be enough to drive that wretched, consuming darkness _out_. Forever.

 _Here is your son, my friend._

 _***oo***_

Mace knows Kenobi is too humble and too blasted _clueless_ to believe his words, but the younger master is gracious enough to accept them without too much of an argument. He watches Kenobi leave with a slight smile and a shake of his head. He wholeheartedly believes every word that he's ever spoken and these ones are no exception.

There is no time for anyone to dispute him. The Republic falls, far too many Jedi are killed, and Mace meets his end after a long, painful drop from Palpatine's office. If things had gone differently, though, he would have met any argument with a hearty laugh. Vaapad is as much of an opposite to Soresu as any form of combat can get, but he recognizes an obvious similarity that those who aren't masters of either form tend to miss: Vaapad's deadliest weapon lies in an exchange as well.

Mace has absorbed his fair share of darkness, but he prefers to give it back in its original form with an additional dose of his own shady form of Light. It's a blow akin to a hammer striking a nail. Sheer destruction at its finest.

Obi-wan Kenobi is similar, but different. He trades pure, uncorrupted Light for Dark, and Mace finds this to be the more powerful of the two. This is _annihilation._

Subtle, sweet, and forever defiant.


	22. Spirit (Jolee Bindo)

When they hear about him for the first time, it is by the mouth of one of their youngsters. He claims to have seen a small, smooth-headed creature at the south edge of the Shadowlands, and the adults all wonder if perhaps it had been a baby katarn, though it is rare that one of those lizards is born without spiky, knobby skin.

They dismiss the child's claim as nothing more than youthful fantasy.

The second time they hear about him, it is from the mouth of a survivor. Yytbi returns to their camp bloodied and torn, but alive. Katarns are truly vicious creatures, and they thank the gods that Yytbi survived. He tells them a small, hairless thing had saved him, driving off the predators with a glowing spear of light.

The description fits that of a Jedi, but the forests are far too dark for Jedi. So it must be some new kind of benevolent spirit. They decide to send a search party to find out.

When they find him, they suspect it is only because he wants to be found. His skin is dark, his beard is speckled, and his head shines like a miniature sun when the rare beam of light glances off of it. Dark, slightly manic eyes stare at them from above a toothy grin.

 _Is it… human?_

The dark one tilts his head as if not understanding.

 _What are you? Man? Creature? Demon? Spirit?_

The being raises a five-fingered hand to point at itself. "Jolee Bindo."

Yytbi insists that it could only be a spirit, and one of the elders immediately brings one of their prepared gifts forward. If this creature truly is a spirit, then they certainly don't want any trouble. If it originated in the Shadowlands there is no telling what harm it could potentially unleash.

The thing/spirit/man seems to realize what they are doing after a few seconds and backs away, waving the gifts aside and muttering some words in basic. "What is this, a tribute or something? I'm no god, I assure you. Not to you. To those scaly beasts, maybe, but that's what I was shooting for –"

Freyyr whacks the Jolee Bindo over the head with a loose branch and the man falls into a heap of ragged cloth and dark-skinned limbs (they know that he is a man now, because spirits are not solid). That settled, they sit tight and wait for the stranger to come to. When he does, they ask as many questions as they can think of, because it is rare for a being of his obvious knowledge to make his home where he has chosen to make it.

Beyysh owns, and knows how to operate, a translator so they fetch him from the village.

This Bindo, this human, tells them stories of distant lands, of wars, of various races and religions, of families torn apart, and of himself. While he laughs about some of it and tries for humor, it isn't hard to hear the undercurrents of frustration and sorrow. Beyysh, while sympathetic, is still amused that the human thinks them dull enough to not be able to understand the tone of his voice in spite of his laughter. Their own language is more colorful than Basic and has a greater depth of meaning than most. Beyysh, unprompted by anyone else, interrupts to ask a question of his own.

"So why are you here?"

Jolee doesn't hesitate. He shrugs. "It's where I ended up."

"Why stay?"

The human smiles. "It's interesting enough."

 _He has lost his purpose._

"You must possess great courage to make your home in the Shade," Beyysh offers.

Another shrug and the same unsmiling smile. "As I said, it's interesting."

 _He has courage, but is loyal to no one. Not anymore. He is –_

There is a word in Shyriiwook that means both 'disenchanted' and 'lost', but there is no word in Basic to convey a similar idea. Beyysh understands, as does his tribe, but Jolee Bindo doesn't seem to understand himself at all. Worse still, he obviously doesn't care.

They feel they should pity him, but they don't. They come to a mutual agreement to leave each other alone and that's the end of it. Years later, when word comes to them that the man has attached himself to a foreign party making its way through the dark forests, they are neither happy nor sad.

Merely indifferent.

The Bindo man never asked for help, pity, or compassion. Neither did he give it unless the occasional situation called for it. Theirs was a relationship of mutual respect.

But when his new party of "friends" passed through their village before they left the planet, Bindo found Beyysh and shook his giant paw. "I thank you for your respect, my friend. I have found my way once more. Thought you and your people should know, since it's important to you and all."

He and Beyysh were never friends by wookiee standards, but he thinks that maybe they were by Jolee Bindo's standards. It doesn't really matter, because Bindo never returns. Nevertheless, it does warm the tribe's heart to learn that the "careless one" finally found it within himself to care again.


	23. Obdurate (Darth Vader)

_Credit to Brievel for the prompt! The combination of prompt and characters had me smiling, but it was only a few minutes ago that I felt I could do it at least a smidge of justice. So here it is. Please enjoy!_

* * *

"'Death Star' is unoriginal. And inaccurate. The machine resembles a moon more than a star. If Tarkin wants to be so ridiculously simple, he should at least appear educated. 'Death Moon' would still be dimwitted, but at least he wouldn't be misleading the rebels. Must be quite the reassurance to picture a massive death machine with the intimidating presence of a fiery, explosive star and then have a run-in with something still massive, but impressively dull." Vader paused his rant and uncrossed his arms long enough to gesture towards Tarkin's monstrosity hovering in the distance. "Look at it, master. It has all of the luster of a rusted gonk droid."

The Emperor resisted the urge to blast his apprentice with a brief round of lightening and instead muttered yet another curse at the recently-deceased Kenobi. Even after death, the man's confounded legacy was still haunting him through Vader's unfortunate past as the Skywalker whelp.

"I agree," Vader responded, apparently having heard the quiet mutter. "The man was a fool and a pest and I'm glad he is dead, but he did have an impressive knack for creativity and manipulation. He knew how to play his enemies. Tarkin, on the other hand, obviously has no clue what he's doing."

"Lord Vader," Sidious ground out, "your diatribe is an unnecessary waste of breath. The machine is built, it is named, Tarkin is doing a fine job with it, and that is that. It does your own reputation a disservice to insult the man who is credited for creating our most powerful weapon."

Vader's gears picked up their whirring, a sign that the younger Sith was growing increasingly agitated. And offended. Sidious was, he hated to admit, caught off guard by how quickly the man's wrath had been aroused by something as insignificant as a _name_. He watched as Vader seethed silently. Maybe his apprentice was done. Maybe he realized how immature he was being over the whole thing –

"Director Krennic deserves the credit, as does the engineer who betrayed us. Tarkin did nothing. As to our most powerful weapon? Master, _with respect_ , that's a load of poodoo."

Sidious opened his mouth to verbally skin Vader to the bone, but the fathomless black stare that suddenly turned his way made him pause. Was this… fear? No. Impossible. Vader was a tool. _His_ tool. He would _not_ be intimidated in the least. "You tread dangerously, my _apprentice._ "

The mask had no expression and never would, but the distorted rasp that sounded from it was clearly angry. "The _Force_ is our ally. Next to _that,_ the ability to destroy a planet is nothing. Child's play. Worth forgetting. Tarkin and his toy can play their petty games. Meanwhile, we will bring peace through _real_ power. Power that no one can deny."

He had a point. Sidious had to grant him that. But still. "Agreed, but do not talk back to me again. As to Tarkin, if the weapon does not matter, then why pay it so much attention? Leave the matter be."

"I will not."

And cue more _talking back_. How in the galaxy had Kenobi managed to survive for so long?

The emperor's arms were above his head and his hands flung out in exasperation before he realized what he'd done. "Oh for the love of… WHY?! _Why_ will you not let the matter drop?"

"Because it's just that: a _matter_. It _matters_. Like it or not _my reputation_ , and yours, are both attached to that disgrace of a weapon and so it should at least resemble our own considerable powers in both presence and name."

Unbelievable. Sidious suddenly wished the Death Star no longer existed. He began to pace and rub at his knuckles just to stave off the itch to destroy something. "Do you have any suggestions?" he hissed.

Now Vader hesitated. "Suggestions? For a _name_?"

Sidious stopped. If Vader was implying what he thought he was, so help the fool… "Apprentice, if you are arguing the merits of its name, then you better have a suitable replacement in mind. Otherwise you have wasted my time."

Vader turned to face him directly. "It's a powerful tool. It needs no name. If you want it to have a fearsome reputation, then don't attach a name to it as if it needs help putting fear into the hearts of the rebels. The fact that it kills planets is enough. They've had demonstrations. Calling it the 'Death Star' is unnecessary finger pointing."

The emperor's fingers twitched, emitting a few sparks. Vader seemed unaffected. Sidious turned away and headed for the exit. "Complain all you want. It shall remain the 'Death Star' and that's the end of it. If you insist on ranting about it, do it outside of my presence."

"It won't last the cycle."

Sidious stopped. "Pardon?"

"There's a glitch. There always is with something of that scale." The emperor _heard_ the smirk beneath the mask. "Basic rule of engineering."

" _Perfection_ is a basic rule of engineering. Again, this discussion is closed."

"You sound like him."

"You're truly testing my patience, Lord Vader."

"Now you _really_ sound like him."

Sidious sighed. "Like who?"

Vader's wheezy breath sounded from behind him. "I hated his guts, but he's dead now. You, on the other hand, tread dangerously, _my master_."

Sidious turned and blasted him with both hands. Lightning arched between them, sizzling, frying, and draining the life from Vader's robotic limbs. But when he finally left, the emperor couldn't help but shudder once he was out of Vader's line of sight.

His apprentice was a smoking mess on the floor, and yet the monstrosity of a man had been laughing. Sidious was only left to wonder _why._

* * *

 _So... I was shooting for humor laced with something slightly unhinged. The characters are also a bit OOC, but oh well. Certain situations call for it, hehe._


	24. Elucidate (Quinlan Vos)

_Shout-out to Guild of Scribes for the prompt!_

* * *

He isn't on Coruscant all that much. Actually, strike that. He isn't on Coruscant's _surface levels_ all that much. They make him uncomfortable and so he avoids stepping foot up top if at all possible. Down hundreds of levels deeper is where he feels almost at home and he's not sure what that says about him. It is there that the planet's thieves, murderers, drug-dealers, bounty hunters, and worse dwell and do business, and it is there that he often spends his time.

Undercover, of course. Because he's not _actually_ the villainous type, but he wears it very well. Too well, some might say ( _most_ might say). Not that he cares what others think about him; he's simply doing his job to the best of his abilities and if that makes them feel uneasy towards him then so be it. Quinlan Vos will not be influenced by mere _opinions_.

Nevertheless, the disapproving looks he receives from those that know something about him (or _think_ they do) are definitely enough to irritate him. So as he strides through the Temple's well-lit and extremely clean corridors, he does nothing to hide his scowl. He hopes his time here will only be a matter of hours before he and Obi-wan depart. He'd been anything but pleased when he'd received word that the Council had requested his expertise specifically. Force knows that there are at least a _few_ others that share his skill-set, though perhaps not quite to his level. Even so…

Quinlan glares at a Jedi that openly frowns at him as they approach each other. "Bugger off," he spits when they pass. The Jedi looks suitably offended, but Quinlan storms past, not bothering with a second glance. He turns one last corner, surveys the name plaques on the nearest doors and knocks briefly on the one that bears Kenobi's name. After a couple of seconds, he raises his fist to impatiently knock a second time, but the door opens before he can do so.

Obi-wan needs only one glance to see that he is in a terrible mood. "Vos," he greets, expression flat. "You're looking as cheerful as ever."

He glares and shoves his way inside. " _You_ can bugger off too," he mutters.

"Charmed."

Quinlan stops short when he sees a lanky young man sprawled on the sofa reading a printout. "Who are you?"

The young man lowers the flimsi with a scowl and Obi-wan sighs. "Quinlan Vos, this is my former padawan, Anakin Skywalker. Anakin, Quinlan. Please try to refrain from killing each other."

Quinlan grunts in Anakin's direction and then turns towards Obi-wan. "So. Ziro. What do we have so far?"

Obi-wan opens his mouth to reply, but Anakin speaks first. "Where did they dig you up from? Some slummy lower-level ghetto? Judging from the way you look and feel it's no wonder they keep you at a distance."

"Anakin –"

Quinlan cuts his old friend off with a raised hand. "Yes, actually, which is _why_ I look this way. I also happen to prefer this look, so _you_ can bugger off too," he growls.

The kid glares back before raising the flimsi again. "Tooska chai mani…" he mutters.

"Watch your manners, _boy,_ " Quinlan mutters back. The kid looks surprised that he had understood and he shoots him a dark smirk before glancing around. His eyes come to rest on a pile of reports stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. He looks at Obi-wan while stepping towards it. The Jedi master looks annoyed. "Are these the reports?"

Obi-wan nods. "On the bottom, yes."

He slides the top half off and freezes. It's odd this time; he sees nothing, but he _feels_ it very clearly. Force, he can almost _smell_ it. Sort of. It's bitter and sharp and it bites. He visibly flinches and draws his hand back as if stung.

Obi-wan notices and his expression changes immediately. "Vos? What's wrong?"

He swallows and continues to stare at the pages he'd touched. This scent is much stronger than the traces he's come across before. The short list of names he's catalogued comes to the forefront of his mind as do the faces that match. They are the dangerous ones, the smart ones, the _schemers_. The ones that he's never been able to pin evidence to. The ones that always _get away with things_. There has always been a distinct edge to those ones. Something different than the average criminal.

Something _dark._

"Where did you get these ones?" he asks, pointing yet careful not to touch.

Obi-wan's expression is schooled into a serious frown and he's quick to answer. "Those are Senate notes that Anakin is going over for the Chancellor…"

"Palpatine?"

"Yeah," Anakin grunts from his position. "I just came from his office."

Quinlan turns towards the kid and extends a hand, gesturing. "Can I have that one?"

Anakin hesitates, but one glance at Obi-wan's expression has him handing it over. "What's going on?"

"I felt something…" he begins and then grits his teeth when he has the page in his hand. "You got this directly from the Chancellor?"

"Yes." The man is visibly confused.

Obi-wan takes a step closer. "Quinlan… what do you see?"

He turns his eyes on Kenobi. "Nothing. But I _feel_ something very clearly and it's definitely not _good_." When the other Jedi remain silent, he takes a seat on the table's surface, a few inches to the right of the disheveled stack of flimsi. Turning towards Skywalker, he skewers the boy with a firm look and continues. "You said I felt like someone from the lower levels. Explain."

Still obviously confused, the young Jedi sits up and holds Quinlan's gaze. "Dirty. You feel dirty, like your signature is sort of, I don't know… murky? Shady?"

Quinlan nods. "Right. That makes sense. I spend most of my time interacting with those that live in the slums of society. Not all of them are bad people, but many of them are and I tend to come away somewhat stained most of the time, but I also won't blame all of it on them. I've got my own issues too. I'm a little _messed up._ " Here he grins, genuinely amused by his own private joke. "Slightly _off_ , you might say, but I guess that's a good thing. Maybe it's why I'm so good at what I do…"

"Quin," Obi-wan interrupts with a pointed look. "The Chancellor?"

He shakes his head, still eyeing the Skywalker lad with curiosity. "Yes, that man is rotten, but I'll get to that. _You_ on the other hand," he says, pointing a calloused finger at Anakin, "need some help."

Anakin looks simultaneously insulted and worried. "What?"

When Quinlan finally looks at his childhood friend, he finds that the man is not remotely surprised and looks very, _very_ tired. Drained. "And you know it," he finishes, directing the words at Obi-wan. "I _swear_ ," he mutters, standing once more and lightly brushing his fingers against the treacherous pages. A cold chill snakes up his spine and he grits his teeth. "You Temple-dwellers need to open your eyes a little more and you need to _think_ , blast it. You cannot ignore this," he states, eyeing the two. Sometimes he thinks his fellow Jedi are clueless idiots. Sighing, he moves towards the door.

" _What_ are you talking about?" the boy snaps. "You can't just leave. The Chancellor's a good man; he's done nothing wrong and _he's_ helping me out, so you can't just –"

Whirling, Quinlan silences the boy with a single, steely-eyed glare. "You carry a darkness with you, Skywalker. A very _heavy_ darkness. One that affects the mind and the heart. Trust me when I tell you that I can _tell the difference_ between a common criminal and the not-so-common. Palpatine falls into the latter group and he's begun to poison you. _Wake. Up._ " He stops himself, because if he continues then he'll say things that no Jedi should be heard saying. Not even him.

"Quin." Obi-wan's voice is quiet. Resigned, but firm now. Unyielding. "What are you going to do?"

He eyes the other man. "I'm going to find Mace and Yoda and deal with this. And you –" He stops himself again, but this time it's because Obi-wan looks suddenly amused. Still bone-weary and resigned, but somehow amused.

"Bossing me around again, Vos?" he quips. "Bad habit, but I admit it comes in useful at times. I'll stay here and deal with…" he trails off, smiling sadly as he gestures between himself and Anakin. "… _this_."

Satisfied, Quinlan leaves. He's never been one to linger long when something needs doing.

As he marches back through the maze of hallways, lifts, and stairwells, he forgets entirely about Ziro. The hutt is only a common criminal. Mild filth. Quinlan Vos has a much larger and more challenging quarry in mind.

***oo***

He has a reputation as a peerless tracker due to his unique ability to _see, feel,_ and _smell_ (his term for it) things simply through touch. It's why they called him away from his other missions in order to track Ziro. Save some time, because why not when they have a man who can do the job quicker than the rest? Pairing him with Kenobi had been a choice born from lack of trust; if the man had been able to keep Skywalker under control, then surely he can keep Vos on a leash as well.

They expect the two to be successful.

What they don't expect is for Vos to barge into an informal Council meeting, demand an audience with Mace and Yoda _alone_ , and then bring the war to a screeching halt with four words:

"I found your Sith."


	25. Dignity (Obi-wan, Part 2)

_P_ _art 2 of_ _a (now) three-p_ _art prompt fill bec_ _ause Obi-w_ _an h_ _ad_ _a re_ _ally long, re_ _ally complic_ _ated,_ _and re_ _ally full life... enjoy!_

* * *

It's raining. It's been raining for a week. Obi-wan is drenched, but currently sitting someplace dry and trying to become dry himself. His mood can accurately be described as _sour_ and his countenance does nothing to hide it.

He is, in two words, _over it._

They've wasted far too many days attempting to get through the shield or shut it down, and in the process they've almost exhausted their food supply. The men are beginning to find less-than-amusing ways to pass the time and his own extensive store of legendary patience is starting to unravel at a disturbing rate.

Just as he readies himself to stand and endure the unceasing downpour once more (he _still_ isn't dry…), Anakin steps under the makeshift roof and drops a bundle on the slab of rock doubling as a table. Obi-wan gives it a sideways glance and his face twitches in irritation. It _smells._ "Anakin, what –"

His young friend sits himself down and gives him a small smile. "Hello, master."

Strike that. _Anakin_ smells. Normally, he would attempt to remain civil and hide his reaction to the assault on his nostrils, but today he doesn't even bother. "Where have you _been_?"

"Reconnaissance." The one word answer is spoken around a smirk and beneath glittering eyes.

Obi-wan's sour mood begins to simmer across their bond and his own eyes darken a shade. Leave it to _this_ man to finally push him over the edge… He catches sight of the mound of mud that Anakin has unwrapped and sees things wriggling. And squirming. And _crawling._

 _Oh Force._

His gut clenches in protest. "What is that?"

"Lunch."

So Obi-wan is forced to sit and watch his comrade in arms slurp and crunch and inhale his very much _still alive_ 'lunch' while the youth simultaneously explains that he's found a clever way into the base through some long-forgotten ancient sewer lines directly underneath it.

In the middle of his tale, Anakin dangles a fat worm in front of his face with an inquiring look.

Obi-wan gives a curt shake of the head in response. "I am _not_ eating that."

Anakin shrugs and, like a kid playing with his food (because he _is_ actually _playing_ with his… _food_ ), twists the slimy creature around one finger and sucks it off in one go. Obi-wan involuntarily shudders and turns away. "Let's not waste time. I'm ready to be done with this place." With that said, he steels himself and steps into the soggy muck.

The younger Jedi watches him leave with a smile. His old master currently resembles a drenched womp rat, but his head is held high, his shoulders are squared, there is a distinct swagger to his step again, and there is no longer the pungent tang of prickly frustration humming across their bond.

Grabbing a few beetles for the road, Anakin hurries to follow.

***oo***

Point Rain is a mess.

Obi-wan almost dies.

Many of his men _do._

When they enter the Healing Ward and check in at the front desk, Obi-wan is leaning against Anakin and the younger man has an arm around his back to keep him upright. The young healer manning the desk gives them one look and stands without a word to go fetch someone a bit older. Anakin feels sorry for her. She returns with a middle-aged Jedi neither of them have met before, but he gives them a kind smile that immediately inspires trust.

Both of them are slow to trust, though, and so neither smiles back.

"Let's get him to a room," the man murmurs, slipping his own arm around Obi-wan so that Anakin can release him. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm fine, really. Just a few scrapes and bruises…"

"He might've cracked some ribs. He's got an ugly gash on his left leg and he's been talking nonsense every twenty minutes or so, so you should check his head out too." Anakin rattles this off as if the other man hadn't spoken.

The healer nods. "We'll run him through concussion protocols. Looks a bit dehydrated..."

"Yeah, he'll need fluids."

Obi-wan frowns, coherent enough to be put off by their blatant disregard for the fact that he's standing _right here_ , thank you. Well, now he's sitting – _lying_ —down, and it feels rather nice…

"Take care of him."

He begins to drift, eyes fluttering shut.

"We will."

***oo***

It's evening, right around the hour most species indulge in dinner. The training floors are mostly empty, which means this is the perfect time to get some practice in. Ahsoka would honestly prefer to be eating dinner with everyone else, but she knows that Master Kenobi likes it quiet (she suspects it has to do with 'practice' mostly taking place on battlefields).

So here she is. Sweating, panting for breath, lightsaber in one hand, shoto reversed in the other, and staring in baffled wonder at the older Jedi across from her. This is meant to be a lesson in Jar-kai, but so far she ruefully admits that it's been more of a demonstration of the sheer dominance that can be sustained when a master of Soresu decides to just let loose and _have fun_.

And that's what he's doing. _Having fun._ At her expense, no less (though she feels a smile coming on…). "Master," she bites out, gritting her teeth as she's forced to use _both_ of her blades to fend off a wicked combination of counterattacking jabs and sweeping thrusts. "I thought you said you were only going to _defend_."

Those blasted grey-blue eyes begin to twinkle mischievously. "The best defense is a good offense, young one," he intones, breathing lightly.

She rolls her eyes, flipping backward to land out of reach of his saber. "I thought I was sparring with Master Kenobi, not Skyguy."

This draws a lightly accented laugh. "Well I did learn _some_ things from him. Not many, but some."

 _Bantha poo_ is what that is, and she knows he knows it too. It's evident in the soft smile that's fallen over his face. "I've learned some stuff too," she retorts. Then she launches into her own offensive, a lethal barrage of blinding slices, flickering jabs, and adder-quick parries (if needed). The defensive maneuvers are Master Kenobi's contribution. Anakin had scoffed at the idea that she needed them, but she'd known he was appreciative that the older man had taken the time to teach her.

Right now, though? Ahsoka has no need for defense. Master Kenobi's loose attitude is contagious and she's going all in. It's a brash, reckless, Hero With no Fear style with an overdose of pure _sass._ It only takes a few seconds for her to realize that she actually has the master on his heels. No, she hasn't scored a hit, but she's come close. Maybe…

She adds a small Force-push into her next cut and smiles when he's taken completely off guard. His arm and blade are pushed across his body and he's forced to duck awkwardly under her thrusting shoto.

At least that had been her plan.

Unexpectedly, he's able to tear his blade away and knock her shoto to the side with a backhanded parry. "You're getting better – _oof."_

She'd been so shocked by his _impossible_ parry that she'd reacted instinctively. Her Force-push hits his gut and sends him straight into the wall. Stunned, she can only stare. "I'm _so_ sorry…" She trails off and then frowns.

He's laughing. _Laughing._ If the two of them had been strangers, she might have wondered if his head were screwed on straight. Instead, she just groans. "Why is it that every time I actually land a hit, you guys can only _laugh_?"

Master Kenobi stops laughing, but he's still grinning like an idiot. "Because you always apologize. Like you're surprised."

"Well…" she shrugs, pouting. "I _am_! I mean, it's _you_ and it's _him_."

The older Jedi pushes off from the wall, sparing a glance at the small dent he's left behind. Then he trains his dancing, _laughing_ eyes on her again. "Maybe you should stop denying the fact that you're getting better?"

He phrases it like a question, but it's definitely not. Ahsoka feels a warm chill snake down her back. "Really?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, Ahsoka." Then he smirks. "Now. Land a _second_ hit and I'll take you to Dex's."

She grins in challenge. "You're on, master."

A little over an hour later, they're sharing a table and chomping on greasy sandwiches while Master Kenobi educates her on the pitfalls of hubris and the finer points of Ataru. It'd taken them twelve minutes to get a speeder, forty minutes to get to Dex's (traffic had been _terrible_ ), and about ten minutes to get their food.

Their second duel had been over in seconds, leaving her one blade short and rubbing her keester while his blasted eyes _still_ laughed at her.

He'd taken her to dinner anyway.

***oo***

"Ventress."

"Kenobi."

Anakin is momentarily insulted that the witch doesn't acknowledge him too, but she's always had a thing for his former master. "Um, Hero With No Fear standing right here, thanks for noticing." He frowns at the disgusted look he receives in return. "Hey! Of the two of us, I'm the more dangerous one. He's said so himself."

"Anakin."

He blinks and glances at Obi-wan. "What?"

His old master still carries a straight face, but there is humor in his eyes. "Go take care of the two battalions of droids will you? I'll keep Ventress occupied."

"But master –"

This time, Obi-wan begins to look irritated. "I can handle myself."

"And Ventress?"

"Will be occupied. Now go."

Anakin shakes his head and runs towards the advancing droids. He has no doubts that his friend will keep Ventress distracted, but he _knows_ the man holds no ill will towards her. Ventress is a Sith. She deserves to die.

How much suffering and carnage must she leave behind before Obi-wan figures that out?

***oo***

"I'll kill her," he vows. "I will kriffing _kill_ her."

Beneath his gaze, trembling and drawing in short, raspy breaths, Obi-wan finds the energy to somehow glare at him. There is something distinctly _broken_ in that glare. "Anakin."

"No." He looks away, glancing at the rest of the poor man's body. It's a miracle he and Alpha had survived. Well, physically. His friend's mental state is another story entirely. "No, master. She is going to die for this. I promise. I'm going to hunt her down and –"

"Anakin, just… stop. Please. It… hurts."

He looks at Obi-wan's face again in time to catch the furrowed brow and the tightly closed eyes. It doesn't take much guesswork to realize that his own childish tantrum had leaked across their bond. "Shoot! Master, I'm sorry. Here," he says, rising to his feet. "Let me go get a healer."

"No, that's not… necessary. Just…" There's a long pause in which Obi-wan opens his eyes to look at him again. Somehow, some way, there is an earnest hope there and it's directed at someone who doesn't deserve a single bit of it. "Forgive her, Anakin. Let it go. She's only… lost. Confused."

 _What?_

He can't. There is no way. Anakin clenches his jaw and looks away again. "I'm getting a healer."

***oo***

Master Kenobi is back on the front lines, but he's not the same serene Jedi that he'd been before. Before Ventress took him away from the Order, attempted to tear him apart, and then allowed him to escape even in his tortured, battered state.

He's different.

More vulnerable and emotionally open than before. More… human. Anakin notices, Ahsoka notices, the men notice, almost _everyone_ notices. Obi-wan isn't able to hide it. There are cracks in his shields now. Not in his mind, because Force knows his _mind_ is shielded up and locked tight and not even Anakin can get _close_ to touching it.

But his Sabaac face has slipped. There is anger present in the tightening of his mouth and the slight furrow of his brows. There is grief in widening eyes and clenched teeth. There is _clear_ irritation whenever his expression flattens, and there is unexpected joy in bearded but not quite hidden dimples and a bark of laughter (and when does Obi-wan ever _laugh_ like _that_?). Anakin appreciates it to a point. He sees what most of the others miss.

There is a broken, bleeding, _heavy_ tiredness to everything Obi-wan does and says now. It pains the younger man to see it, and he repeatedly vows to grant Ventress the death that she deserves.

"Anakin."

They are in the middle of a firefight, battle droids everywhere, clones falling left and right, their lightsabers desperately trying to weave some sort of defense out of the mess. Anakin briefly reflects that Obi-wan's technique has gotten both tighter and smoother, even _more_ efficient if possible. That's another thing too.

While the man has lost the calm outward presence they are all used to seeing, his Force signature seems to have done exactly the opposite. Obi-wan's typically passive Soresu has begun to take on a more aggressive, dangerous flair, but his signature has gotten brighter, warmer, and _softer_.

It doesn't make any sense.

"Anakin."

Then there's this. It happens often. In the middle of the chaos, Obi-wan shoots him _looks_ and single-worded inquiries. "Yes?" he bites out. He doesn't look at the man because he doesn't need to. He knows what's coming.

"Are you okay?"

Now he looks. He always does. Obi-wan stares back at him, brows furrowed in concern even as his blade effortlessly deflects blaster fire away from them. After a second, one brow ticks upward ( _"Well?"_ ) and Anakin looks away again.

"I'm fine."

He never knows what to say. Should he spill his guts to the man in the middle of a warzone? Or should he instead turn the question back around? Because _Obi-wan_ , by all rights, should be the one that's very much not okay, and yet the man somehow continues to live and fight and just _deal_ with the galaxy's poodoo day in and day out.

"You're sure?"

Anaking flicks his eyes sideways, catches a brief glimpse of _tired_ , steely blue concern, and starts advancing so that he can just avoid the question. Again. "Yeah. I'm sure."

***oo***

Ventress leaves Dooku and takes on the much easier life of bounty hunting. When she sees Kenobi again, she's baffled to find him emotionally wrecked and taking a solid butt-kicking at the hands of Maul and his freakishly large brother.

When they're both in the escape pod and the Jedi has routed the navigation to some out of the way system, she gives her longtime nemesis a short, cursory glance. "It suits you," she says.

Kenobi's unswollen eye twitches in her direction. "Pardon?"

"A red blade. It suits you." She expects him to deny it or to be troubled by the accusation.

Instead he nods in what seems like agreement and doesn't seem remotely troubled by that fact. "Perhaps, but it's just a color. I was – am – unbalanced. I lost control, lost my focus," he mutters, looking away towards the viewport. Silence reigns for a few seconds. He studies the stars while she studies him. "I owe you a thank you," he eventually says.

She blinks. "What?"

The Jedi doesn't look at her, but she catches his reflection in the star-speckled glass. There's a tiny smile on his face. "When you captured me I was forced to deal with some things I hadn't taken the time to deal with yet."

Ventress gives him the same look she'd given Durge the first time she'd met the misshapen mutant. "You're thanking me for _that_?" Is he _insane_?

"The Force willed it." He closes his eyes, leans back and sighs. "I will always bear the scars, Ventress, but you forced me to face the worst of my demons. That mask is… effective."

She just stares, baffled.

"But I'm still here, still walking in the Force's light, still making mistakes," here he winces. "But I _will not fall._ I _cannot._ " The grimace turns into another unexpected smile. " _You_ made sure of that, and for _that_ I owe you a thank you."

Then he spins in the seat and drills her with his eye. There's a spark in it, something ridiculously pure and _light_ and it sets her spine to tingling. For the first time since she'd been a padawan to Ky Narec, since her beloved master had died, she feels the Force's light touch her and _stay._

"As for the rest of that miserable experience," he murmurs, lips now twitching in the beginnings of a full-fledged grin, "I forgive you."

***oo***

Occasionally, there are moments where they get to rest. If they happen to be on Coruscant, Anakin usually takes the time to discreetly meet with his wife (something Obi-wan suspects, but he never asks or looks for proof), and Obi-wan is left to his own devices. Usually he meditates for a couple of hours or heads to one of the private dojos to get some katas in.

Every now and then, he checks in with friends. It's something he never used to do a lot of, because his duty as a Jedi _used to_ mean research in the Archives, attending Senate hearings, or taking on additional Council-related tasks while he was at the Temple. _Now_ … well, things change, he supposes.

 _Now_ …

He's begun to redefine what duty is and he's decided it should be more aligned with loyalty and the act of _giving_. Or _caring_ , rather. He's been accused of being a workaholic by many of his close friends and acquaintances and he'd always turned it back around on them, assuring them that he did what he did out of the desire to _help others_.

A true statement, to be sure. He's always wanted to help.

 _Now_ …

Obi-wan smiles a little to himself, fingering the long-distance communicator he holds in his hand. After only a moment's hesitation, he enters a combination he'd memorized _years_ ago. It's a private number, known only by a few. She's like him in that way, but he's trying to change. Trying to be more _proactive_. Seeking instead of reacting. It's a different sort of giving, less task-oriented and more personal.

"This is Satine."

His smile grows softer. "Hello, Duchess."

And _Force_ , he can hear her smile. "Ben! This is a surprise."

"A good one?" he asks, smirking to the empty room.

"Well I never did think you would actually _use_ this number, but I'd always hoped…"

It hurts, as it always does, but he reminds himself that they will always be _friends._ Nothing more. But definitely nothing less, either. So he moves on. "How are you doing?"

There is hesitation on the other end, and this hurts too, because how often does anyone ever ask these sorts of questions anymore? "Fine, I suppose."

He sighs tiredly and takes a seat. "Satine. How are you _doing_? Really."

And she sighs too. "I _am_ fine. Truly, but… I'm afraid. My people…"

They talk for as long as she has time. It never occurs to him that she might eventually ask the same.

"I'm fine," he says and then mentally slaps himself.

"Obi-wan."

"Yes, sorry." He pauses before admitting what he doesn't like to admit. What a _Jedi_ should never have to admit to. "I'm afraid too."

Satine, without any hesitation, says, "That's okay."

"No. It's not. I should be able to work through it. I should –"

"Ben," she interrupts. "It's _okay_."

He swallows and sits down. Runs a hand through his hair. Sighs. Like he always does. Finally, he offers the room a shaky smile and braces himself. "Tell me why," he pleads. "Why is fear _okay_?"

"Oh Ben…" he hears her whisper. "Contrary to popular belief, Master Yoda does not have a monopoly on wisdom. Not all fear leads to anger."

"Satine…" he begins.

"Fear can make you brave. And kind, and compassionate, and _understanding_. If you can be afraid and still move forward, well then…" she trails off and he _knows_ she's smiling again. "You can face anything."

"Anything." He wants to believe her. _Force_ , does he ever _want to._ But she hasn't slept through his nightmares, the ones with horned devils and Sith witches and trillions of battle droids all trying to steal his mind before just killing him altogether. The ones with heat and grit and wind and bleeding twin suns in a place he tries to forget ( _Qui-gon_ had been there), but can't because it seems like more than just the setting of a painful memory. More like a _vision_ , which means he'll be back at some point.

"Yes, Ben. _Anything._ "

He sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and nods. "Okay."

***oo***

Anakin often speculates with Padme about whether or not Obi-wan could ever feel _that_ way about someone.

"He's human too, Ani," she always says.

"Yes, but…" he always responds. "He's a _Jedi_."

"And you're not?" she asks him.

"We are _very_ different Jedi."

He used to believe it. He _has_ to believe it. It's his only justification for keeping his marriage a secret from the man.

But then Satine Kryze is murdered, and he no longer knows what to believe.

***oo***

One of the horned devils stabs her in the gut and he goes numb with disbelief. Then he's moving and catching her in his arms and lowering her to the cold floor. Maul disappears. His brother fades. The rest of them no longer matter. Only her.

He has nothing to say. There aren't any words.

But of the two of them, she's always been stronger, so she finds some. "Obi-wan… I've always loved you." The smile can't escape from behind the grimace, but it's _there_. Somehow, it's _there_. "Remember that."

And she's gone.

He's left only with what could have been, the life they might have had if he just hadn't _failed_ again. Grief becomes his constant companion for the next few weeks and then he wakes up one morning to discover that he isn't actually angry at Maul. He isn't angry at the Force for taking away yet another person he cares about. He isn't even angry at his fellow Jedi for not trying to understand.

Obi-wan is, quite simply, tired. He's tired of a universe that is obviously mad in spite of how orderly everything seems to be, and he's tired of people _dying_ in spite of his trying very hard to save them.

 _Do or do not; there is no try._

He also discovers that in this, Master Yoda is very, very wrong. It's startling at first, but then he becomes more open to the idea. The wizened old master is still worthy of much respect and yet…

 _Fear can make you brave._

"Yes," he says out loud, to no one in particular. "Yes it can." Then he smiles. Grins, really, because it's suddenly become apparent to him that his friendship with that dear, _dear_ woman had been more than enough.

 _Is_ enough.

He decides to start putting more effort into people, because that's what she would have wanted. For him to take opportunities to help people up close and not from a distance. Mad universe be damned (he may continue to lose those he cares about, but the least he can do is just _be there_ and _be present_ ).

 _Fear can make you kind, and compassionate._

It isn't much later that he finds himself in yet another impossible situation. Obi-wan stands in one of the Temple's more secluded gardens and watches Anakin's padawan shake with muffled sobs. He swallows, knowing that he's failed this young togruta in a big way and may not be able to change anything and yet…

"Ahsoka," he murmurs. She doesn't turn or acknowledge his presence, so he continues. "I came to apologize for, well, for a lot of things, but I'll get to that in a moment." He stops and gathers his thoughts (he can hardly believe what he's about to say). "I want you to know that if you do decide to leave, I won't try to stop you. We've betrayed you in a way and it only makes sense for you to want to go. Master Dooku left too and –"

"I don't want to turn into a Sith."

It's a whisper and Obi-wan is absolutely stunned by it. "What?"

She turns and her face is streaked with tears. "I can't stay here, but I'm afraid that if I leave…"

Obi-wan tilts his head, realizes something, and offers her a small smile. "Darkness is a _choice_ , Ahsoka."

"But Mortis –"

He cuts that off immediately with a sharp look. "Is in the _past_. You're still in the light, padawan. Scarred, perhaps, but you're _here_."

"Not for long." Her voice hardens and she looks away again. "I have to go."

"I know."

"It's dangerous."

"Yes."

"I'm scared."

"Good." She turns a wide-eyed stare on him and his smile widens. He walks forward and stands next to her. "That's something I understand fairly well, so I think I can help with that. I had a conversation with a friend not too long ago, and she proceeded to inform me that Master Yoda does not know everything there is to know about fear."

"But what he says is true –"

"From a certain point of view," he gently argues. "This friend of mine showed me a different side of things. One that also rings true, if you'll let it."

Ahsoka tries to smile back at him and then reaches up to wipe the tears from her face. "One last teaching moment?" she asks with a faint smirk.

Obi-wan wishes he could laugh, but his smile only shrinks when he nods (because he's losing someone again). "If you'll allow it."

"Okay."

It's perhaps his finest lesson to date, if only because he has a very _good_ feeling about it. He doesn't get those very often.


End file.
